Fifty Shades of Justice
by Inks Inc
Summary: As a new and ambitious ADA of the US Attorney's Office, Anastasia Steele faces the first case that chills her blood and haunts her dreams. A vicious battle for justice grips Washington as aspiring billionaire Christian Grey goes head-to-head with predatory paedophile Elena Lincoln. Hell bent on retribution, Ana teeters on the fringe of ethics and love as sparks fly fast and true.
1. Chapter 1

"Look at it," she spits. "Look at that filth and look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me that's how it was. What it was. Who _I_ was. Read it and think about it. Really fucking think about it, Christian, because this is the kind of path that once paved, can never be undone. That imbecile shrink whispers these sweet nothings louder and louder in your ear with every passing session, but do you truly believe them? Do you truly agree with them? Have you truly crumbled to something that weak and spineless?"

The sheet of paper in front of me seems to weigh ton as I reach for it. I don't look at her, despite her frenzied demands. There was a time when the sharp lash of her tongue would have me dropping to my knees and gluing my eyes to the floor. That time has gone. I'm the master of my own destiny these days. I bow to no one. I take a deep breath and read quickly, an impassive mask screening my face. There will be no reactions. No audible gasps. No dramatic hand-wringing and soul-searching.

 **Rape of a Child in the Third Degree** ( **RCW 9A.44.079)**

 _A person is guilty of rape of a child in the third degree when the person has sexual intercourse with another who is at least fourteen years old but less than sixteen years old and not married to the perpetrator and the perpetrator is at least forty-eight months older than the victim._

 **Child Molestation in the Third Degree (RCW 9A.44.089)**

 _A person is guilty of child molestation in the third degree when the person has, or knowingly causes another person under the age of eighteen to have, sexual contact with another who is at least fourteen years old but less than sixteen years old and not married to the perpetrator and the perpetrator is at least forty-eight months older than the victim._

 **Communicating with a Minor for Immoral Purposes** ( **RCW 9.68a.090)**

 _A person who communicates with a minor for immoral purposes, or a person who communicates with someone the person believes to be a minor for immoral purposes, is guilty of a gross misdemeanour._

Slowly, coolly, I place the paper back on my study desk and lean back to consider her. My heart is beating painfully against my rib cage. This is a conversation that has plagued my dreams. This is a conversation I always, deep down, knew to be inevitable. But the direction and timing of this conversation has thrown me. Taken me by surprise. But I cannot show that. Any betrayal or hint of indecision and she will latch onto it like a drowning man to a singular life raft.

"Is there something on there that you do not understand, Elena?"

Her eyes scream the obscenities that she's rapidly becoming too clever to verbalize. Mrs Lincoln is many varied and depraved things, but stupidity is not one of her shortcomings. She regards me shrewdly. I return the gaze with indifference. I've become so skilled at manipulating my own body's natural impulses, that she couldn't possibly know I'm fighting the urge to vomit, that the room is closing in, or that when I get my hands on Flynn he's going to know all about reprehensible fucking conduct. But she is not so skilled, and I spot the changing tactic like a hawk.

"Christian, darling," she purrs, "This is not how we do things. That shrink, he's twisted your mind. He's making you think such terrible things **…** about us **…** about yourself. He cannot accept you for who you are and so he's desperately searching for a reason to blame… Someone to blame… To condemn for who you are. And he's pointing the finger right at me. Because it's easy to do it, isn't it? For someone like him. For someone who couldn't _possibly_ understand what we had. The connection we shared."

I stare at her with ice in my heart.

"And what did we have that was so special, Elena?"

Her garishly red lips pop open as if she were genuinely surprised by the question. She wasn't. The helpless Elena Lincoln act was about to premiere. And by a stroke of miserable luck, I've got myself a front row seat. Her hand drifts up to smooth down the collar of a blouse ten years too young for her and her eyes flutter downwards in a calculated attempt at throwing up the submissive scent, hoping I'll bite.

God, she's fucking pitiable.

"We had a bond. I saved you. I taught you. I cherished you. I lov—"

"Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ say that you loved me. You are no more capable of love than I am. You desired me. A child. A fucked-up child at that. You did not love me. You could never love me. You loved the control you had over me, the power you wielded. You loved the way I made you feel, the youth I helped you rekindle. You loved the game you were playing on your husband, using me as your sick little pawn. You loved what you could do to me and what I would do for you. But you _never_ loved me. Let's get that fucking straight."

My chest is heaving.

I'm suddenly furious with myself.

Never, ever show emotion.

Fucking idiot.

Her slow, slack smile has my stomach turning over my tuna-salad lunch. Ammunition. That's what I've just given her and we both know it. I swallow deeply. She stands slowly, a panther eyeing her prey. Her clawed hand reaches out and snatches the paper off my desk. She enjoys the temporary imbalance of our poises, staring down at me like she used to do. I fight fucking hard to keep my brain in the present, to keep my neurons out of the part of my brain that houses the memories of an adolescence rivaled only in terms of depravity by my infanthood.

"You are set on this decision? This ridiculous suit?"

If I wasn't before she stormed into my home, I sure as shit am now.

My nod is silent. My eyes tell a story.

"You will regret this," she promises softly. "You will regret this to your dying day. You are building your empire right now, boy, but you've not built it yet. You're still slinging through the blood battle that is Washington industry. You're twenty-four years old. Still a child. A child playing at being an adult. How do you think this will look to your investment bankers, your stockbrokers and your lawyers? How do you think this will play out in _Seattle Scandal_ weekly? Hmm?"

Her laugh cascades down on me like a sprinkling shower of splintered glass.

"You fool," she sneers. "This will be your ruination. You mark my words, Christian Trevelyan-Grey, you will rue the day you ever listened to the ill-informed sniping of that little excuse for a man you champion so fiercely. How _crushed_ mommy and daddy will be when they hear of their grey-eyed little boy's trauma. How guilty they'll feel when this story breaks big. How they'll _agonize._ How they'll blame themselves, blame each other for never seeing it. How they'll torture themselves when they recall all the times they called on me to babysit their precious, pampered little prince."

The bile in my throat is molten as her malice glints off the crystal-clear window.

"It will destroy them. It will destroy you. It will destroy everything you have ever worked for and dreamed of. And for what? For the doe-eyed approval of a simpering little Brit who only wants you for your money? You think he actually cares about you? _News flash._ You have no friends in this world, boy, not a one. Except me. There is no one walking this earth who cares about Christian Grey that doesn't share your surname. You're all alone, save for me, and now you're dangerously close to losing me. This is a big bad world, and you'd do well to remember that alliances are essential to survival. And that severing those alliances can be… dangerous."

My lungs contract painfully as I subtly gasp for air.

Her slick smile burns my exposed skin like droplets of escaping acid.

"But for old times' sake and for the affection I still bear you, I will offer one last accord. You call off this ridiculous vendetta. You call your lawyers and you ensure the DA never gets a whiff of this utter, vile nonsense. You tame your shrink. You control him. Just like I taught you. You put an end to this while you still can. And in return, I'll forget this ever happened. I'll chalk it up to the stupidity of youth and we can continue on with our lives as we always have."

Her three thousand dollar handbag shifts up her arm and her teeth bare back in a feral snarl. The unfiltered, unscripted Elena. The predatory cougar. The pedophilic philanderer. I stare and I see her in a way I have never truly seen her before today.

I see the real her.

"You will call me tonight. No later than nine. You will inform me of your decision. And from there, we shall proceed. Think on this decision, Christian, think on it like you've never thought before. Because if you think you've had the shit end of the stick with me as your lover, you have no fucking idea what's coming down the line for you if you choose to have me as your enemy."

The sounds of her clicking heels resound forcefully until they fade into nothingness and I am alone. The bright Seattle sky melts into a dusky cover of muteness as I sit without movement. My mind keens. How my life got turned upside down so forcefully is utterly fucking baffling. I'm still struggling to connect the dots. No one except the esteemed Dr Flynn knows my filthy little secret, hence why he is the sole object of Elena's vitriol. But if I do this, the whole world will know, and my parents…

My parents will have to face a truth I don't know if they can handle.

I inhale and exhale with a slowness that sends an oxygen surge rushing to my brain.

I press it to its fullest advantage.

The clock strikes eight.

The call connects on the fifth ring, as it always does.

"Christian."

The shortest and most prophetic silence of my life abounds.

"I'll see you in court, Elena."


	2. Chapter 2

My mom opens the door before I can fish my key to the family home out of my pocket. Her glowing smile makes me feel sick to the deepest, darkest depths of my stomach. She has no idea. Not a clue. How could she? Her toothy grin reminds me of the first time she brought me home and the guilt is a filthy rag to a depraved bull. She's opened the door to her cookie cutter home, with her perfect husband and father, and I'm here to shatter their fucking lives. I'm here to ruin everything they've built. The happiness of their children, the success of their careers, the good-standing of the Trevelyan-Grey name. I'm here to ruin all and she welcomes me with open arms.

"Christian."

It's amazing how much love she can pack into one name. My name. She thinks I'm here for dinner. To catch up. She's calling my father's name over her shoulder. He appears at the door as she practically manhandles me over the threshold, careful to avoid my torso. Carrick's smile matches Grace's as he launches into a full-blown strategy session about the legalities of my upcoming merger. I can see his lips are moving, but I don't hear what he's saying. The fire crackles in the dining room as my mom moves off with that smile still planted firmly in place to retrieve some platter or other of food. I drop into my familiar place at the table and time stands still.

"Stop."

My voice is ringing. It's louder than it usually is. I'm shorter, snappier. They both pause in surprise. I'm cold. They all know this. But I'm usually polite to a flawless fault. I don't snap. Not at them. Carrick's legal wisdom dies in his throat as Grace comes to halt behind his chair, instinctively resting a warm hand gently on his shoulder. Shadows crowd her face. She senses it. A mother always knows.

And my mother knows that right now, somehow, shit is about to get real.

I falter. I don't know if I can do this. I can't unsay what I'm here to say. I can't cram the genie back into the bottle it's been occupying for the last nine years. Once this scandal is out, it is out. My family will never be the same again. I can feel their concerned and borderline frightened gazes drilling into me. My lungs gratefully accept the copious influx of air, though my head spins. I just need to say it. I told Flynn that I would just say it. Today is the day we've been talking about for the longest time, and I can't leave here without accomplishing what I set out to do.

If I do, I'll never do it and then Elena wins. That is… unacceptable.

I don't look at them as I speak in a low, muted tone. I can't. There are many, many things that I can do and do well. But looking my trusting, oblivious parents in the eyes while I tell them their friend and confidant raped and molested me under their noses for all those years is not something I can do. That is not something I can do well. That is not something I can fucking handle. But I have to. I have to handle it. Now.

"There's something you need to know. You need to know it now **…** you need to hear it from me and you need to listen to me until I'm finished. This thing that I'm about to tell you is not going to be easy for you to hear. It's not going to be easy for you to understand and it's definitely not going to be easy for you to live with. But this thing that I'm going to tell you, is about to become very public, very fast. I need you both to be prepared. As prepared as you can be."

I don't need to look at them to know they're paling.

I don't need to look at them to know they're exchanging frightened glances.

I don't need to look at them to know they're absolutely shitting themselves.

"When I was fifteen years old, I was out of control. You both know that better than anyone else. I was angry, full of violent rage and I hated pretty much everything and everyone. Then, moving towards my sixteenth birthday, I started to plateau out. I started to calm. Began to get good grades, settle down in school and generally seemed to be happier and embarking on the right path. You both are aware of this change."

I don't need to look that them to know their eyes are popping.

I don't need to look at them to know their jaws are beginning to drop.

I don't need to look at them to know my mom's gentle hand is tightening.

"What you are both unaware of is the reason behind that change. That very sudden, inexplicable change. The fact that you're both unaware of that reason is because it is depraved, abhorrent and utterly repellent. So much so that until very recently, I completely underestimated the extent of that revolting, nauseating reason. I had as a matter of fact, conditioned myself to believe that the reason was my salvation, the best thing that had ever happened to me. The spark behind my recent successes."

I don't need to look at them because I can't bear to look at them.

"But it was actually the worst thing that ever happened to me. Even worse than the circumstances of my birth and early years. And I need you to know about it now because I'm finally in a position to seek justice for what was done to me. And what was done to me is something you're both going to struggle to accept but please, I need your acceptance. I need you to take my word. I need you to trust me."

I need them to stand with me, but I'm too emotionally defective to say that. This is it. This is actually it. My eyes are fixated at the dining room table where I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner as a child and I'm about to shatter that idyllic setting for them. For the people who took me in out of the kindness of their hearts and have been putting up with my shit ever since.

"Elena Lincoln seduced me when I was fifteen years old. I lost my virginity to her. She introduced me to a world of admittedly perverse and depraved sexual practices. We engaged in a select carnal relationship for many years, before I began to realize what had happened to me upon beginning therapy like you both suggested. I broke off the relationship just after my twenty-third birthday and it's taken me the remaining year to get to this point. I am going to the DA's office. I want her prosecuted for what she did to me. I need to make sure, to make _really fucking sure,_ that she can never do what she did to me, to some other messed up fifteen-year-old kid."

The explanation was hurried, frenzied and burst from me like a rocket.

I don't know how I feel. I don't feel the enlightenment. I don't experience a gentle cleansing of my charred soul. There is no epiphany. No light bulb moment, no surge of euphoria. I think, all in all, I feel the same. The demons are the same, the weight on my shoulders is the same and despite my neurotic and obsessive hygiene routine, I feel as dirty as ever. As sullied as ever. The silence is resounding. The crackling flames no longer dare to crackle. I'm going to have to look at them. I'm going to have to swap an inanimate tablecloth for some very animate parents and I need to do it now.

To my dying day, I will never forget the look in my mother's eyes.

To my dying day, I will never forget the look on my father's face.

I will never fucking forget.

They say nothing for an interminable eternity. Not a word do they share between them. They merely stare at me as if they had never truly seen me. Which, in fairness, is sort of true. Fear suddenly grips me. What if they don't believe me? Elena is still a big part of their lives. My mother still plays bridge with her for fucks sake. How will they possibly be able to wrap their heads around the bomb I've just launched at them? Real fear suddenly consumes me.

Aspirations cast upon my sanity are not entirely an unknown in my family.

But then the fear melts away. I see it before she says it. I feel it before he blinks it. They believe me. They really fucking believe me. My mother is a fierce woman and only a fierce woman could have tears of horror in her eyes and a snarl of murder on her lips. She removes her hand slowly from my father's shoulder and they exchange a look that I'm on the fringe of.

A married look.

Dr Grey walks slowly towards me. Carrick remains seated. He is an empathetic man. He knows Grace, and I, despite my unuttered love for him, share a special connection. She saved me. She wrapped me in softest whites and she saved me. My first memory that doesn't skin me with pain is of her. He knows this needs to come from her. She knows this needs to come from her. Hell, even I, an emotional subhuman knows that this needs to come from her.

The hand that was on my father's shoulder descends onto mine.

She senses I cannot be touched any more than that right now.

The gentle squeeze is worth more than all the growing millions in my bank.

"Christian," she whispers, "There is so much more that we need to know, there is so much more than we need to understand. There is so much more we need to discuss. But there is only thing that you need to know and understand right now. There is only this _one_ thing that you need to believe and believe without question or hesitation. I need you to listen to me right now while I tell you what that is, ok?"

I nod. It's all I can offer.

The hand curls around my shoulder even more firmly and yet, softly. Her voice is a strange conflict of motherly adoration and animalistic fury. She's trembling and radiating in equal measure behind me. Her voice tremors but her diction is flawless and her words bleed into my long-term memory, never to be forgotten.

"Your father and I are going to be by your side. We will be by your side throughout every single step of the way that it takes to bring that filthy, pedophilic predator to justice. We will not rest until she rots behind bars. We will not rest until you get the justice you deserve. We will not rest until she can never hurt you or anyone else, ever again."

I close my eyes and hang my head.

I know now why I feel nothing. Why I feel no heavenly absolution or cleansing. It's because I have nothing left to give. It's because the secret that I've just unleashed was a life force of its own within me for years and years on end. And now that's it's not my secret anymore, now that it's out there…

I am utterly, truly, and irrevocably fucking spent.


	3. Chapter 3

The seeping stench of cheap coffee and overworked staff is everywhere.

Carrick peers disapprovingly at the frazzled state lawyers and frowns when they throw dog-eared files to each other with tried grunts of direction. We've had this discussion. He wants some of his big-firm partners and himself to sit in on the case. I've refused. The last thing I need is for Elena to see me coming to court with my daddy to fight my battles. I want them in the courtroom, sure, but not at the plaintiff's table. And definitely not privy to the overall scheme of depravity at hand.

Grace sits on the other side of me and offers a small smile.

She's going through a shit storm of hellacious proportions and yet every time I try and ask how she is, she gives me that smile. The smile that she's always given me. The smile of motherly sacrifice that she's willing to make repeatedly and eternally. Digesting my pain and hiding her own. I look away. The guilt is eating my soft tissue. It's a physical pain in my stomach. I dragged them into this. They're here and facing this scandal because of me.

He's reassured me to the contrary, but I know this could ruin my father.

Just as surely as it's going to ruin me.

But the genie is out of the bottle now. I knew that it was never going to be stuffed back in once I loosened that cork. I knew it and I did it anyway and seven days later, I still feel ill with remorse every time my mother has to hide her tears and every time my mild-mannered father curses like a sailor when he drops a spoon. They're changing. They're changing and it's my fault. After we leave here, we're meeting Elliot and Mia back at the house and their worlds are next in line for the Christian Grey meets Elena Lincoln tsunami.

How many more lives am I going to ruin to save my own?

The DA we're supposed to meet is late. Carrick's frown deepens further. I know his overbearing sense of professionalism is just his way of trying to regain control of the situation. If there's one thing I can understand, it's the burning need to corral some control in circumstances that are without boundaries. Grace shoots him a warning look that she thinks I don't notice. The tensions are building between them, too. Another thing they think I don't notice. I know full well I walked in on a row just yesterday. My mother was sobbing, blaming herself for introducing Elena into my life and growing rapidly irritated with my father's insistences to the contrary.

It had taken all their will power _not_ to confront her themselves.

I suppose it made sense that that sort of energy sapping restraint would fray some nerves. I excuse myself to go to the restroom and when I return, they're holding hands. I don't know why, but the mere sight of something I've seen a thousand times makes me want to hurl things at the walls. I will never have that. I will never sit side-by-side with someone in thirty or forty-years-time and hold their hand like a decent, none fucked-up specimen. I'm too far gone and I know it. But they don't. They still hold out hope. Another reason why I don't want Carrick second-chairing the case. They don't need to know how stone-cold dead I am inside. They don't need to know that I feel nothing but the most negative, soul-destroying emotions life has to offer.

They don't know that the Christian they think I am died at aged fifteen.

A creaking door to my extreme right opens before I can take my seat. A matronly woman of about fifty pokes her head out and smiles wanly at me. An overly plucked brow is raised and she glances at my parents, probably wondering what kind of pathetic twenty-something has to bring mommy and daddy along to a simple preliminary meeting.

"Mr Grey?"

I nod. Words were not essential until utterly mandatory.

She smiles again.

"Miss Steele will see you now."

My mother and father rise in tandem and shoot me encouraging smiles that only makes my necrotizing guilt even more tissue thirsty. I can feel it creating pestiferous lesions in my intestines. I lead the way. My own attempt at regaining control. They fall back, allowing me. We pass through an outer office and upon a permissive nod from the smiling secretary, walk straight into Miss Steele's office. She's on the phone. Her back is turned to us. Only the top of her head is visible. She's a brunette. A Harvard graduate, a Yale postgraduate. Intelligent lady. She senses our presence and hurriedly but professionally, finishes her call.

I note her manners with approval.

She swings her chair around and stands and I note that she's beautiful.

Just my type, actually.

And for the first time I note that I just don't give a flying fuck.

Women are so far down on my to-do list, they're in danger of becoming an extinct species. I don't care about that, either. I accept her outstretched hand and fail to return her courteous smile. I nod at her warm introduction and offer a cold one in return. It doesn't faze her. She turns to my parents and shakes their hands in turn. They are warmer. But then, they are naturally good people.

And I am not their natural son.

She settles down behind her desk and I'm struck with how young she is. Maybe a year older or younger than me, it's hard to tell. Already in the DA's office. Impressive. She extracts a file that contains my recent police complaint that initiated the process that I cannot take back and scans through it quickly. Her eyes are very blue. I don't think I've ever seen eyes with such deep azure tones. She looks up and hesitates for just a moment.

"Mr Grey, would you be more comfortable with or without your parents in the room before we begin? It's entirely your decision. Some people prefer support in the nitty-gritty and some people prefer a more widespread console."

Her voice is exceedingly pleasant.

And in that moment, I know I need a more _widespread console._

I turn to them and hope they won't be offended or caused even more distress than I've already heaped upon them. Carrick opens his mouth in consternation and I just know he wants to grill Miss Steele three ways from Sunday. But Grace, the ever-omniscient Grace, smiles that smile of sacrifice and stands without hesitation. She manages to hoist my father from his chair while making it look like a gentle embrace and nods.

"We'll be right outside, Christian."

My eyes bleed with gratitude as she manhandles my father out the door. I see him subtly checking Miss Steele's degrees and bar admittance on the way out and bite back one of the first real smiles I've felt like in forever. Trademark Carrick move. The door snaps softly shut and it's just me and her. She smiles at me reassuringly and glances back down at my file of filth, her brows furrowed as she tries to pretend she's seen it all.

She hasn't.

I know from her face that this is something she's never seen before.

Welcome to the dark side, Miss Steele.

I'll be your undesirable guide.

"Mr Grey-"

"Christian. Please."

She smiles that professional smile and nods.

"Certainly. Well, before we get into this I need to give you fair warning about your expectations and some advice on how best to manage them. From reading the statement you gave to the police, I can see several difficulties that we're going to have to fight to overcome to get this case to trial. Namely, the time delay in reporting the abuse and the lack of physical evidence to support your claims. That being said, the political appetite is a huge burner for the kind of support this office receives in pushing cases forwards. And right now, the public mood is particularly ugly with relation to sexual offenses committed against a child. Especially a campaign or litany of abuse."

She pauses, glances down and double checks something, before continuing.

"All in all, and in my opinion, it's a fifty/fifty shot you've got here. I believe everyone should know the facts before they get into something like this, and those are yours. That being said, you should know that… well, this case has disturbed me enough to make me angry enough to do whatever it takes to bring this woman to justice. This sort of abuse is the most depraved I have ever seen or studied and it would be abhorrent for it to go unpunished. I will endeavor to bring about that retribution, you have my word. With all that being said, would you like to take some time and call me tomorrow with your final decision?"

She smiles again and I feel a boiling rush of gratitude that there's no pity in her gaze. Only a steely determination and a professionalism that is rather shocking for one so young. I get the distinct impression she's an early graduate and has coveted her position since she was a child. I swallow. A fifty/fifty change to avenge my fifty shades of fucked up misery. Not the best odds and not the worst. My words operate independently of my brain and she nods vigorously at their utterance.

"No. I know my final decision. I want her taken down. At all costs."

"That's a very brave decision, Christian. As time is of the most supreme essence here, do you have an hour to spare right now to get the ball rolling or shall I have my secretary schedule an appointment? I appreciate that you're a busy man."

I shake my head.

"No. I have the time. Where do we begin?

The first chink in her professional armor shows as she hesitates for a fraction. I raise a brow and brace myself. Somehow, I know I'm not going to like what she's going to say. Glancing back down at her file, she seems to ready herself before looking back to me.

"I see that you've given what is an essentially a brief overview to the police. While that was enough to warrant the file being passed to this office, I'm afraid it falls far short of the kind of detail I need to put a case together. I know this is going to be difficult for you, but given this is almost an historical case, all statements need to be rich in fact and…"

She hesitates yet again.

"And they need to have a beginning, middle and an end."

I frown at her.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that."

Her hesitation is back and I know then that she fears she's out of her depth. Not legally, no. She oozes confidence in that department. But psychologically and emotionally. I've suffered enough constipation of the psyche to recognize a kindred spirit. Once again, I know I'm not going to like what comes out her mouth as she slowly parts her lips.

"I'm afraid I need you to tell me, in as much clinical and emotive detail as possible, about every single incident you encountered with Mrs Lincoln. From the first time she ever behaved inappropriately towards you, right through to the last time and everything in between. I need as many times and dates as you can remember. I need the factual rundown of everything that happened during the abusive episodes. In short, Christian, I need you to recount every single word and act you can remember ever having with the woman."

I feel the blood drain from my face and the room begins to close in.

"And then I need to present those statements to Mrs Lincoln's lawyers, who will then try to deconstruct and destroy them in court and on cross. I cannot lie to you. This will be a grueling process. There will be times when you want to quit. There will be times when you want to walk away from it all. There will be times when you want to withdraw every single accusation and have the records sealed."

She leans forwards and her warm brown eyes are suddenly on fire.

"Those are the times you need to remember why you started."

She readies a pen and yellow legal pad and raises a brow.

"This is the first step of many, true, but it's the hardest step to take."

That smile is more reassuring than it should be.

"Are you ready to take it, Christian?"

I stare for the most outrageously long moment.

Am I?

Can I do this?

Can I irrevocably expose myself and my family to this? To the media circus, the business ramifications and reputational landslide? I suppose the bigger consideration is, can I _not_ do this? Can I go back to living with the shame and the never-ending feeling of corrosive contamination. The sort of filthy feeling that three-hundred bars of the most expensive soap can't wash away.

No.

I can't. I won't. This ends here and it ends now, or it never will.

"Consider step one underway, Miss Steele."

A/N: The American legal system is radically different to the Irish process so please forgive me if there are technical disparities!


	4. Chapter 4

"I was fifteen years old when it started."

Miss Steele doesn't flinch or falter. Her gaze is her namesake.

"She was a family friend. She mixed in the same circles as my mother. She would be over at the house all the time. I didn't notice her at first. She was just another adult. But as time went on, I started to see her. And she definitely started to see me. She'd find reasons to end up alone with me. Volunteering to fetch an extra bottle of wine from the cellar when she knew I was down there, insist on helping to clear the table so we could wind up alone in the kitchen together."

I see it in my mind's eye as I say it. Smell the smells of eleven years ago.

"She got to know me. She showed an interest. At that time the relationship between my parents and me wasn't exactly idyllic. I was in a pretty bad stage of adolescence. They were at their wits end and I was barely speaking to them. I think she knew I was frustrated with the way they tried to coddle me. She made a clear effort to treat me like an adult. Made me feel like more than the angry fifteen-year-old kid I was."

She stares at me with a silence that seems to scream.

"One night after one of mother's big dinners, when the last of the guests had left, she lingered behind. Grace and Carrick had taken over chauffeuring duties. It was a bad winter. A lot of cabs couldn't make it to the house and they hadn't been drinking. Elena offered to stay with me until they got back, seeing as it would be a while because of the snow. My brother and sister were with friends. It was just us."

My throat constricts slightly and it takes all my preparatory school manners to keep from cursing in her presence. I don't know how all this shit is coming out. I thought it would be impossible. But now it seems like it's going to be impossible to stop. She doesn't interrupt and ask a million questions. She doesn't widen her eyes and gasp with shock. She merely writes with a speed that is frankly disturbing and oozes with that professionalism that doesn't match her years.

"I was in the kitchen. We always talked in the kitchen. She comes in and starts asking me about my plans for college and what I'm planning to major in. Tells me she has connections at Harvard. Talks about the future. She knew I hated talking about the present or the past. We were clearing away the plates and her hands kept brushing mine. She laughed at everything I said. Looked at me like I was more than just her friend's son."

The tingling in my cheek is coming. Like it always does when I think about it. Not that I think about it often. As sick as I am, I'm not a masochist. I inflict pain on others. Not myself. I don't sit at home and think about the first time Elena Lincoln became more than the babysitter I was too old for. Miss Steele doesn't prompt my pause; she says nothing and waits with an air of patient expectation. How does she do that? How does she sit there in her bubble of clean living competency and not flinch? Jealousy pricks me. How much easier my life would be if I could mimic that skill.

"I liked the fact that I could make her laugh. I got an arrogant high from it. Back then, no one laughed around me. Everyone walked on eggshells, afraid of setting the freak off. When she gave me my first glass of red wine, my arrogance grew. I started saying some crazy shit. Trying to shock her. She wasn't easily shocked. We were sitting on the sofa. She knew better than to touch me with any more than a brush of her hand but she was sitting close, really close. I remember how warm she felt. She gave me a second glass of wine and then a third. After a while, I felt myself loosen up. I felt calmer than I'd done in years. Her hand rested on my shoulder when she was telling me a story and I didn't throw it off. I didn't even notice her put it there until it was. And when I did notice, I liked it."

Her legal pad seems to scream in pain as she writes faster and faster.

"We talked. She poured me another glass. Warned me not to tell my parents. It'd be our secret. I, of course, was more than happy to oblige. My arrogance grew the more she laughed. I was too young and too stupid to see that her laugher never met her eyes. Too naïve to realize that normal middle-aged women didn't spend their Friday nights drinking wine with their friend's fifteen-year-old son. But when she moved in to kiss me, I reacted instinctively and yanked myself back, realizing that I was just a kid talking a man's game. I shouted at her. Called her some pretty vile names, screamed at her to get out of my house."

The silence is too long for even Miss Steele's legal dexterity.

"And?" she prompts, and I love that she speaks normally. No gently hushed tones. No looks of sorrow. "How did Mrs Lincoln react? This first encounter is going to be the most powerful for the jury, Christian. Please try and remember every detail. Even if it seems insignificant to you. It could prove crucial. So, you yelled at her and told her to get out of your house. Is that when she left?"

I smile.

It's more of a smirk really.

"No. That's when she slapped me across the face and warned me that if I ever spoke to her like that again I'd choke on the gag she'd force down my throat."

The first flicker of shock crosses her face and I immediately wish she'd go back to writing notes and nodding sporadically. And she does. Almost as if she's reading my mind, she does. The pen scratches across the pad at a blinding rate before she speaks once more. "And your response to that was what? Where did things go from there?"

Where didn't things go from there? I've been over this crucial moment. Analyzed it. Broken it down into its most minute form before building it back up again. Pondered all the different roads I could have walked. Wondered who I'd be now if I'd gone to my parents that night. Told them what had happened. But the past doesn't change for anyone. Not even me.

I swallow.

This is getting harder.

"My response? It was to say and do nothing. I was shocked. She had always been positively mellow before that. It was like she changed right there and then in front of me. She wasn't the same Elena. When I reached up to rub my face, she grabbed my hand and dragged it back down. Told me that I needed someone to rein me in. That I was out of control and my parents had privately confessed to her that they didn't know what to do with me. That they were sick of me. That I was embarrassing them, their family name. That they had to beg my latest school to take me in and they didn't know if they could be bothered to grovel like that ever again."

Her hand is a blur. Her brow is knitted and her shoulders tighten.

"I remember opening my mouth to tell her that my parents would never say something like that about me to someone outside the family. But nothing came out. I couldn't speak. She smiled at me as if we'd come to some sort of an understanding and leaned in to kiss me again. I jerked back. She grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me forwards. The third time she tried to kiss me… I didn't stop her. I kissed her back. I don't know why or what I was thinking, but I started to enjoy it. I didn't have to think. She did all the thinking for the both of us."

She glances up and her face is completely devoid of judgment.

Rare breed, is Miss Steele.

I suddenly want to get this first encounter regaling over and done with as quickly as possible. The room is getting too warm and the memories are becoming too real. I need to get back to my boardroom. Back to where I'm a man who commands respect and expects it in equal measure. Obviously, that will be a thing of the past shortly. So I'm keen to make the most of it while it lasts.

"To make a long story short we—"

She interrupts for the first time.

It takes me by surprise.

"Christian, it would be remiss of me to allow you to present a shortened version at this point. I would only have to revisit it at a later date and insist you go into the detail that is required. If you need a break, that is absolutely fine. But otherwise, I'm going to need more of a short story long, than a long story short."

My usually stiff shoulders slump.

I mentally devote twenty-three more minutes to this torture.

And then I am out that door like a bat out of hell.

"A kiss led to her taking my shirt off. A kiss led to me taking her shirt off. A kiss led to her taking my pants off and a kiss led to me taking her skirt off. I was fifteen. I didn't have a clue what I was doing, but she was very demonstrative. Told me not to worry about becoming a teenage daddy, that she was a careful woman. I remember we laughed a lot about that. I don't know why. I lost my virginity to her on the faux-leather sofa of my parent's living room while they were one drop-off away. Afterwards, she told me to get dressed and go to my room. The wine was wearing off at that point and panic was setting in. I did as I was told.

I think I spy a fleeting bout of nausea in her eyes but she blinks it away.

"Carry on, Christian," she prompts quietly, "You're doing great."

I hide a flinch.

How could she know that very phrase was one of Elena's favorites?

"She came to my room about ten minutes later. She'd reapplied her make-up and brushed her teeth. I remember she smelled of mint. I was sat on my windowsill, not knowing what to think, and she came to stand behind me. She put her hand on my shoulder and I remember thinking that her nails were the reddest I'd ever seen. She squeezed it and bent down to whisper in my ear..."

Her hand stills for the first time and she leans back in her chair.

"What did she say to you?"

"She told me that this was the beginning of the change that would be my salvation. She told me just to look at how well I reacted to having my face slapped. She said I was the type that needed to be controlled to gain control over my own life. She said that I wasn't a boy anymore and that I needed to start acting like a man. And a man didn't speak of his sexual conquests with anyone, at any time, for any reason. She said that what had happened between us was our business. No one else's. She told me that was the reason she picked me. She knew I was trustworthy."

I flick an imaginary piece of lint from my pants and close my eyes.

"She pressed a note into my hands. It was her address and the times and dates of her husband's upcoming business trips. Told me to come by at five pm on the first date. She said that she had a special education planned for me. Said she was going to cure me of my wild child streak. Promised that my days of ruining my life and the lives of those around me were over. Warned me again that I was not to breathe a word of what had happened. Told me to either go to sleep or pretend to be asleep before my parents got home, so they didn't suspect I'd been drinking."

Ink is practically splattering on her nose as she's once again writing with a fury. I'm nearly there. The full, frontal tale of my first foray into manhood is nearly over. Exhaustion is pounding through me. Sweat is popping at my temples. I feel like I've run a thousand laps. My heart is hammering and my lungs are beginning to protest about the unnatural amount of air I keep stuffing into them. She looks up and I'm once again in awe of her professional poise. I feel like it would take a lot to shake the determined Miss Steele and for the first time, a light of hope that this might actually work is shining.

"She rubbed my cheek where she'd slapped it. It was still a tiny bit pink. I remember finding it hard to pair that Elena with the Elena who'd hit me. I found it even harder to pair the fact that I wasn't upset that she'd slapped me. I was grateful. It did what she said it did. It calmed me. Made me feel a calm that I hadn't felt in years. She dug her nails in just enough to make it hurt and smiled at me. Told me that she knew what I was thinking. Knew I was confused about liking it. Told me it was normal. That she would educate me on the matter. That our relationship was something she'd wanted from the first time she'd laid eyes on me. And then she left. Just like that."

My jaw twitches.

"The first time she saw me, I was ten-years-old."

Miss Steele's eyes close slightly. The only betrayal of the disgust I can tell she's feeling. She scribbles ferociously once more, her face creases in concentration. The silence is almost companionable. My vocal chords settle for a moment, glad for the reprieve. When she looks up, she's the honed professional once more.

"Thank you, Christian. I appreciate that could not have been easy for you. I think that's more than enough for the moment. This is a marathon and not a sprint. We need to pace ourselves. If you like, I can have my secretary call and schedule our next appointment or you can call when you feel ready to do so. Like I have said, this case is under some rather extreme time pressures but they do have to be balanced against your welfare. Please take the time to think carefully through what you're ready to do and when you're ready to do it."

She rises.

I instinctively mirror her. Her outstretched hand is warm and smooth underneath my cold counterpart. Probably an anatomical reflection of the divergence of our souls. I realize I feel lighter as our hands drop away. A sense of purpose is filling me. This whole debacle can be viewed as a difficult acquisition. The asset I want to acquire is justice. The obstacles are Elena and the shit storm that goes alongside her. The psychology of business can be applied to the psychology of the law.

Both are a game of chess.

Our goodbye is courteous and calm.

Outside, there is no calm. There is no calm whatsoever. Carrick is practically hyperventilating as he tries to dart around Grace to barge into Miss Steele's office. For her part, my mother is calm and composed as she pulls him back into line with ease. The minute they spy me, they're by my side with unspoken pleas for answers.

Leading the way out, I offer a small but genuine smile.

Their looks of instant gratification are intense as all hell.

I will never tell them more than they need to know. An hour or so later and back at the house, we're all seated around the dining room table. Elliot and Mia are looking bewildered. Well, Mia is. Elliot looks shifty as if mentally calculating all the wrongs he's done and wondering which one's could possibly be known and warrant a full-blown Grey family meeting. It takes everything I have left in this day, but I clear my throat at my mother's gentle prompting. Closing my eyes, I set about trashing the idyllic childhood memories of my siblings.

Of one thing, I am sure.

The sounds of my sister's heartbroken sobbing will never, ever leave me.


	5. Chapter 5

It's my imagination. I know it is.

But I can still feel them looking. Still hear them whispering. But they cannot know. Not yet. Soon, they all will. As for now, my past deviancy remains in the sealed records of ADA Steele's case files. The days of my path to riches being unhindered are dwindling. Fast. Miss Steele rang this morning to inform me that she had a clearing in her schedule for this afternoon. She wants me to come in a day earlier than planned to nail down the next chapter in my Book of Sickness.

I said yes.

But I should have said no.

I thought it would be hard, but doable. I knew it would be uncomfortable, but not unbearable. The first installment of the Elena and Christian tale of woe is undoubtedly the tamest. I can almost see the disgust spilling from Miss Steele's eyes, no matter how professional she may be. Nobody can hide their micro expressions, their most basic reactors. I am going to have to sit there, once again, like an abused lapdog and continue to spill my most sordid secrets to a girl that surely must consider me contaminated.

I consider me contaminated.

This is my first boardroom. My first real boardroom. I sit at the head of the table as I ought to and look down at the men who secretly resent serving a man twenty to thirty years their junior. But they serve nonetheless. But for how much longer? How much longer can I expect to retain their grudging respect when they find out I'm damaged goods? That my name, the Grey family name, is to be dragged through every pool of mud from this side of the Earth to the other.

The meeting erupts to a close around me.

I have no idea what it was about.

Not a fucking clue.

But I rise with the arrogance of a man who knows it all.

It's time, allowing for Seattle traffic, to see Miss Steele. I slide into the back of my first town car. My first driver, Taylor, doesn't turn to look at me. I like that. He's quiet. He doesn't ask questions and he's competently discreet. I give him the address and drum my fingers against the leather door pane as the car slides effortlessly through the reams and reams of stalling cars. I try and ignore the increasing pace of my heart. Nerves are not an affliction I am accustomed to.

Until now.

Again, the threat of a panic attack hovers in the distance. The terror that I'm making the worst mistake of my life never leaves me. I could just put Elena and all the immoral, repugnant pieces of our past behind me. My assent to commercial dominance would continue without interruption and my name would never be sullied. But that option, I know deep down, is gone from me now. It evaporated the moment I told my family. They would rather lose all our riches and status than see Elena walk free.

So that it would leave me with no way out.

Her office smells exactly the same as I step in, this time alone. The people are the same. The waiting area is the same. No one glances at me as they beat around, looking haggard and overworked. But for my case assignment to the competency oozing Miss Steele, I might have shared Carrick's reservations about the ability of the office to handle the case. I am not kept waiting long, so my window to hyperventilate the ever living fuck out of myself is scant.

"Mr Grey? Miss Steele will see you now."

I sort of manage a smile at the same secretary as before. But from the affronted look on her face I think it was more of a glare. Oh well. I give a perfunctory knock before entering the small office. She's finishing off some dictation and looks up with a smile and a gesture to sit. I do so. Stiffly. I prefer to be the one who looks up and waves at someone to sit. Because that person is the person in control. I wait, which is new for me, as she rounds of the last of her scribbling and switches off her Dictaphone.

"Christian. How are you?"

Oh, I'm over the moon. Joyous. Why else would I be here?

"Fine, thank you. How are you?"

I hate small talk. I hate big talk. I hate talk, period. And yet I'm willingly binding myself to this Ikea **-** like chair of torture to do nothing _but_ talk. About things that I swore when I started GEH that I would never speak of, to anyone. But that changed. I don't know when and I don't know why, but it changed. She looks crisp and capable as ever. Her hair is off her face and neatly pushed back, but she retains a sense of femininity. Her gray pant suit is sharp and intended to intimidate, I should know, I know suits. But her off-white blouse with the slightest hue of pink running through in pinstripes complements it just right.

Jesus Christ, I might be gay.

Gay Grey.

I could totally and utterly pull that off.

It would make pragmatic sense, even. Elena was a woman. No man had ever done to me what she did. Perhaps men were a safer bet than women. Everyone thinks I'm gay anyway, secretly, so what the hell? I stuff the notion back down. I was born straight just as much as a gay man is born gay. I cannot help or change that.

My only option for true safety is abstinence.

And fuck that for a pack of biscuits.

Her voice cuts through my weird tangent.

"I'm very well, thank you. I know you're busy so let's get right down to it, shall we? The last time we met **,** we left off from your first instance of abuse where Mrs Lincoln, according to the law, raped you in your family home at the age of fifteen. I know from your brief overview that that incident was the first of many and the beginning of the cyclical molestation you suffered. I think, for the purposes of a jury, we need to break down the overall scheme of abuse as succinctly as possible. Juries don't like to be overloaded. We need to be able to offer them bite-sized pieces of information. Is that ok with you?"

I close my eyes for the briefest moment and nod my head.

It's not ok.

But it'll just fucking have to be ok, won't it?

"Yes, that will be fine, Miss Steele."

She nods. No emotive response. No gushing. Just the practical picking up the pen that I can tell is her favorite, and the smoothing out of her legal pad. She looks up at me expectantly and I know that this isn't going to be a question and answer session. It'll be the same as the last time. I just talk and talk and she just writes and writes. How I'd love to know what goes on in that brunette head of hers. She gives nothing away. In another time, I would have been consumed by her impassiveness, desperate to know what she knew. Now, it is a mere curiosity of circumstance.

"Where do you want me to start?"

She waves her hand.

"Wherever you feel most comfortable, Christian."

I'd feel most comfortable neck deep in a barrel of whiskey. Maybe two barrels of whiskey. But that option doesn't appear to be on offer. The quicker I talk, the quicker I finish, and the more time I have bask as the CEO to the stars. Because the sand is trickling fast on that score. With every flick of her pen, the sand is trickling.

"I didn't see Elena for three weeks after the first time. According to the note she gave me, it wouldn't be until then that her husband, Linc, would be away on business. I spent those three weeks being terrified and thrilled in equal measure. Once I got over the shock of our first time, I realized I liked it. Loved it, even. I'm not proud of that fact, but the truth is the truth. I eventually looked forward to our second meeting. I thought it would be more of the same. Wine and sex. But it wasn't. It wasn't anything like that."

Her hand once again burns across paper.

I look for signs of disgust at my admission of pleasure. There are none. I look closer, confused. But still, there are none. She notices the lull in my speech and looks up without irritation or judgement. She merely sits there, patiently, and waits for me to continue. It's almost unsettling how neutral she is. It niggles me as I open my mouth to carry on, reluctance evident, Who wouldn't be even slightly moved by the disgusting depravity I speak of?

She's like the personification of fucking Switzerland.

"When I got there, she didn't smile. She always smiled at me. Always. She dragged me through the front door and told me to wait in the hall. It was dark, it was early evening, but it was winter. My parents thought I was doing AP class prep at a friend's house. I didn't know what was going on when she left me standing in the hallway. When she eventually came back, she was carrying a set of keys. Made me look at the door. Told me my only option to leave was right then and there. That if I chose to stay, I could leave only when she told me to leave and that I was agreeing to all that would take place that night."

Ink swarms onto the yellow page. She has extremely neat handwriting.

"When I said that I wanted to stay, she locked the door. Told me to follow her. I…became excited when I thought she was leading me up the stairs and into her bedroom. But we didn't go upstairs. We went downstairs. She had a basement that I'd never seen before. We used to have dinner as a family over at her house quite frequently, so I was familiar with it. When I asked her where we were going, she told me to shut up."

A wry smile covers my face as I remember it.

"I was upset. I couldn't understand why she was being so cold. But I did as she told me; I shut up. But I was becoming angry. I was angry all the time back then and the provocation of being told to shut up was just the sort of thing that used to set me off. The steps to the basement were dark, there wasn't a light. We were at the bottom of them when she unlocked a door I couldn't see and pushed me through it. She closed the door, I heard it lock automatically, before she turned on the light."

The silence is so long and so heavy that this time she prompts me.

"Christian? Are you ok to continue? We can take a break, it's no problem."

I shake my head. I'll never be able to start this again if I end it here.

"When she turned on the light I was shocked. I was naïve and uneducated in many things back then, but I knew that what I was looking at was something beyond the norm of marital intimacy. We were standing in a windowless room. Bare walls. Flagstone flooring. The floor was uncovered, rough. It was an incredible contrast to the rest of the house which was **,** of all things, pristine. It was cold. Draughty. The room had nothing in it that you'd expect to find in your average American basement."

I don't think I've ever seen a human hand move so fast.

"The walls had racks mounted on them. All four walls. From them, hung an assortment of implements particular to the BDSM lifestyle. Whips, canes, floggers and the like. There was an assortment of what I thought at first glance, was gym equipment. But it wasn't gym equipment. It wasn't anything close to being so ordinary. There was a cross that nearly touched the ceiling. With shackles to bind whomever was to be attached to it. There was a whipping horse with similar binds and there was a large double bed with no linens or coverings."

For the first time, there it is.

Shock.

It splashes across her face like a sputtering water hose. She sees me see it, and quickly wipes it away, but not quick enough. I get a strange, sick satisfaction from her discomfort. A twisted verification that what I allege, truly _is_ heinous. That I'm not being a weak little shit that cries about spilt milk long after the fact. While the momentum is still present and behind me, I carry on.

"I remember asking her if we were in Linc's workshop or something. I remember it was the first and only time she laughed that evening. I was afraid. I didn't show it then, because that would have been a weakness in front of her and I was rapidly growing enamored by everything about her. But I was. I knew something was wrong, very wrong. But I was too young and stupid to know what it was.

Her tongue peaks out a tiny bit when she's concentrating.

It's utterly unsettling that I find myself thinking this to be…cute.

 _Cute._

Sweet fucking Lord **,** this office does nothing but screw with my mind.

"She pushed me into the center of the room and told me to strip. I was still wearing my school uniform - the chains of a private education. I wanted to wear something more adult going over there, but that would have roused my parent's suspicions. I didn't move. I didn't understand. There was no wine, no food, no nothing. The Elena in front of me was the fleeting one I had seen for the first time when she slapped me across the face back at home. I thought that was just a once-off. That I'd made her lose her temper. I was always making people lose their tempers back then. But she wasn't snapping out of it this time. Her eyes were cold and her words even colder."

I see it all in my mind. My first foray into the lifestyle.

"She got angry when I didn't take my clothes off. She repeated herself. Warned me that there would be consequences if I didn't do as she said. I remember just staring at her, waiting for her to go back to the Elena that kept me awake at night. But she never did. When I didn't move, she lost it. Stormed across the room to where I stood and yanked my blazer off for me. She undid my tie, opened the collar of my shirt and ripped it from my back. Somehow, she managed to unzip and pull my pants down before I could even blink. Before I knew it, every stitch of clothing was off and thrown into the corner of the room."

Her pen stills for the slightest moment.

"I tried to cover myself. I was freaking out. It wasn't anything like what I was expecting. It wasn't anything like the first time. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and told me to move my hands. When I didn't, she pulled it so tight that I cried out and moved them. She circled me. Said she needed to assess exactly what she was dealing with. I was not to speak and I was not to move. I didn't. When she finally circled to face me, she told me to look around the room. I did. She asked me what I thought it was. I told her I didn't know, I'd never seen anything like it before and that I wanted to go back upstairs."

 _I feel, through the years, her hand on my cheek once again_.

"She slapped me across the face. From that point on, I was to never demand anything or speak of my wants. She said she knew what I needed and I would grow to want those needs to be fulfilled and nothing else. She told me that the room we were in was my new classroom. I would learn a great deal there. She promised she would teach me how to control my temper, curb my fighting steak and excel in school. She said that she knew I needed the classroom from the moment she laid eyes on me."

Her hand slows just a jot.

"That's what the room was called from then on. The Classroom. She chose that term so she could speak to me about it in front of company. She often asked, when having dinner with my parents and me. at home, how things were going in the classroom. Grace and Carrick thought her charming with how interested she was in my academics. Only we knew the truth. At first, I loathed it when she brought it up in front of them. But over time, a long time, I grew to revel in our joint secret. As was her intention all along. But anyway, the first time in the classroom was basically a brief introduction to the next eight years of my life."

I drop my gaze for the first time and study the floor.

"She forced me to pick out a cane. I only knew what one was because Carrick used them in the garden to stake up his plants. But these were different. Very different. They were thick and gnarly and twisted into a handle at the top. I remember being extremely aware of my nakedness as I handed her the first one I saw. I was so stupid, I didn't know what she was going to do with it. I still didn't grasp the kind of path I was about to embark upon. When she turned the cane over in her hands and looked at me, I felt real fear for the first time in a long time."

I slowly look up and she's writing with a fury.

"She said that there would be more of what happened back at my house in due course. She told me that she would educate me on the subject like no other person possibly could. But first, I had to cleanse myself. I had to be cleaned of all my shit and my sins. She said I needed to be trained. That she would start off easy and build slowly from there. She asked me what I thought about the cane in her hands, what I thought she was going to do with it."

I begin to feel mildly sick but I swallow it down.

I cannot start this story from the beginning. It's taking everything I have.

"I didn't know. I told her so. She didn't answer me verbally. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me over to the whipping horse in the center of the room. I should have fought her. But I didn't. I was tall and strong for my age, and chances are, I could have broken free from her and fled her home. But I didn't. I allowed her to manhandle me into leaning over the horse. I didn't scream or plead as she tied my ankles and wrists. I said and did nothing as she bound them so tight my circulation nearly cut off.

I look away from her lifting and probing gaze.

"She beat me with the cane eight times. Across my ass. I didn't cry out as she did so. This pleased her a great deal. The pain was unimaginable. I couldn't breathe. I didn't have the oxygen to scream. She released me and helped me stand. My chest was heaving and I swayed on my bare feet. She led me to the bed. Pushed me down on it. Told me that the pain was the only thing someone like me could understand. She promised that it would get easier as time went by, but that I was to expect a beating every time I stepped foot in her home. She said I deserved them. That I earned them. And that after a few years, they would make a man of me."

The shock was back on her face. Amplified. Magnified. A thousand times over.

"I had tears in my eyes when she went down on me. You know…down there…It was the first time anyone had ever done that. She was experienced. That much was obvious, even to me. The pain and confusion were still there but the longer she manipulated me, pleasure began to overtake them. The pain intermingled with it. It became pleasurable pain. I don't, to this day, know if that was her knowledge and intention but I rather think that on the whole, it was. Elena is many things, but she is an extremely intelligent woman. If she wanted me interpret the pain she inflicted as pleasure, she would know exactly how to bring that about."

The pen isn't even moving.

She's too stunned to write.

That's a first, Miss Steele.

"When she was done, she told me to get up and get dressed. I did. She didn't say another word as she led me out of The Classroom, locking it as we walked upstairs. I remember my shirt was on inside out. She told me to go straight home and speak to no one. She said that if I had Phys Ed the next day, I wasn't to shower in the locker room with everyone else. Because there would be marks that no one but we needed to see. She kissed me inside the front door and told me I was special. That I was going to be great someday. She said I was to come back on the next date on my note. That we were going to move up a level in the classroom. That I had natural talent for it."

I uncharacteristically fiddle with my tie.

"Then she pushed me outside and slammed the door in my face."

Silence.

The scratchings of a pen across paper are not to be heard.

Miss Steele's face is paling. Her azure eyes are widening. Her sense of indignation is rising. She glances down at her notes and back at me as if trying to reconcile the past and the present. I have nothing more to say. I cannot utter another word on the matter. I feel as though I've gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. My limbs are weighing heavy, my heart is weak from double beating and a sheen of sweat coats my brow.

I know there will be dreams tonight.

Crack Whore dreams.

Elena Lincoln dreams.

Separate, at first. Before joining as one in a hybrid of horror.

She opens her mouth. I see she's battling with professionalism and sheer human decency. I can say nothing of use. Nothing to aid, and nothing to add. I just want to leave. To breathe air that doesn't reek of the state's attempt to keep up with its most depraved citizens. Taylor will be waiting. He will not ask questions and he will take me back to where I am CEO Grey. Not victim Grey.

Her words, whatever course they were to follow, never escape her.

The door is suddenly thrust open and I stand automatically. For some reason, my posture becomes defensive. Not for me. But for Miss Steele. My torso blocks the path to her desk, obscuring her from view from this unknown and clearly unscheduled arrival. I hear her rise behind me and sidestep my back.

At her words, I step aside.

This is _not_ a woman who needs my protection. Or anyone else's.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" she demands in a strange mixture of heatedness and coldness. "Who are you? What is your business here? And, more to the point, how _dare_ you barge into my office in the middle of a confidential meeting?"

The man is sharply and subtly dressed.

He came from wealth and currently holds it. Of that much, I'm sure. A sheaf of papers are clutched in his hands and he has an air of arrogance that rivals even mine…which is quite something. He places his parcel of documents with a snap on Miss Steele's desk and flashes her an unrepentant smirk.

"ADA Steele. Seeing as you're so very new to this office and," he smiles a sly grin, "this _profession,_ I can in some way understand your ignorance of who I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Frank McCallum, Managing partner of McCallum, Threadgold and Ming. I am the leading defense attorney for the elite and select who can afford my services."

His eyes drift to mine and I see a calculating callousness in their brown hue.

"I represent Mrs Elena Lincoln on matters of fabrication, recently concocted, that are designed to smear her good name. These outlandish accusations are nothing more than the reactive rage of a scorned lover, namely, Mr Christian Grey in response to her ending their consensual, _adult_ relationship. You will find the appropriate documentation on your desk, but allow me to summarize. Mrs Lincoln is counter suing, in the civil courts, Mr Grey for defamation of character. Given the malicious nature of his falsehoods, and the deep lining of his pockets, she is seeking punitive damages in an amount that is better read than heard."

The room is closing in.

My mouth is dry.

I can feel the imbalance of gravity roar in my ears.

 _What?_

She's doing _what?_

"Of course," McCallum continues smoothly, "In keeping with Mrs Lincoln's intensive community and charitable works, her disposition is amenable enough to drop suit in response to the vicious accusations of Mr Grey being withdrawn. And an apology, private of course, issued. As I'm sure, even as a recent entrant to the bar **,** you will know that this is a time pressured case. You have therefore until the end of business tomorrow, to come back to me with a decision. Should you decide to pursue this suit, it is my obligation to inform you that Mrs Lincoln intends to air her side of the case publicly. She will tell of how she and Mr Grey first engaged intimately when he was aged twenty-one and ended when he was aged twenty-three. These cases are often tried more in the court of public opinion that in the court of law, and on my advice, she intends to take the bull by the horns."

I'm going to be violently sick.

I can feel the putrid vomit march along my esophagus.

 _Mrs Lincoln intends to air her side of the case publicly…_

"I do hope you both will come to a sensible arrangement," McCallum concludes, "I would truly hate to see such a young and successful businessman like you, Mr Grey, being burned in the public eye for a misplaced sense of loss.

The breakdown of any relationship is difficult, of course, but free will is free will and two consenting adults engaging in intimate affairs cannot be morphed into something appalling from a simple sense of scorn."

With that, he produces a cell, nods, and sweeps from the room as he answers a call.

Miss Steele is aghast.

I am entrenched in horror.

My blackberry vibrates in my pocket. Out of sheer habit, I fish it out with clammy hands. My mouth runs dry. Bone dry. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt as I stare down at the screen. Miss Steele melts slowly to my side, sensing my disquiet, and reads over my shoulder. The message is from an unknown number but not from an unknown sender.

 _War is not a pursuit for boys, Christian. Choose wisely._

A/N: The story doesn't stay on Christian's recounting to Ana. It's just necessary for the set-up to future chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

Vaguely, her voice registers somewhere in the trenches of my mind.

I'm still rooted to the spot. Miss Steele is slightly behind me. Both of us are staring at the door and the Frank McCallum-shaped hole in my case. I'm about to fucking vomit my guts up. I knew she wouldn't go down quietly; I'm not an idiot, but I wasn't expecting this. But I should have. Elena would know my greatest weakness is my public perception. This case can ruin me and she knows it. Damn her to the depths of hell. She knows it. She's taking an offensive strategy and I should have seen it coming. She's not the defensive fucking type. Most cougars aren't.

This is my final chance to stop the avalanche that will crush everything.

She has the upper hand. She can employ the best of the best lawyers. She has those sorts of resources. As too, of course, do I. But I cannot use them. Carrick aside, my case is criminal and must proceed through the prosecutorial channels proscribed by the state. And that means the DA's office brings the suit. I don't doubt Miss Steele's abilities. But she's young. So young. The Frank McCallum's of this world aren't young. They leap fully formed from the womb with a briefcase in one hand and a tube of Brylcreem for their slimy heads in the other.

The Frank McCallum's of this world know how to play the game.

GEH is my love child. The only good thing I have ever done. The definitive proof of my brilliance in the face of my debasement. I cannot lose her. Politics govern business, no matter which way you slice it. And nobody wants to do business with someone whose name is in the papers for all the wrong reasons. The people I currently deal with are conservative. Rigidly so. They have mortgages in excellent standing, two to three children at the most, and golden retrievers called Rex or Max to add that little something to their Christmas cards.

They're the kind of people who have sex once a week.

Under duress.

They're the kind of people who spit on people like me.

" _Christian,_ are you still with me? Are you ok? _"_

Miss Steele. I can hear her more clearly now, but I'm still sucked down too deep into the trenches of my own despair. I can't breathe. Sweat is prickling my temples and my heart is close to pumping out air instead of blood. I've had nightmares like this. I'm living my own worst nightmare. I can't do this. I don't know why I ever thought I could. Some sleeping dogs are better left sleeping. Especially when, if awakened, they're going to rip your fucking face off.

"I want to drop the case."

My voice is low and slow like the pathetic coward I am. I can't have my front taken away from me. It's all I have. It's what GEH is built upon. My castle in the sand. People look at me and see a well-bred, highly intelligent star in the making. I need them to look at me that way. I cannot abide the merest thoughts of the nation's cameras zooming in on my biggest insecurities. I cannot have a situation whereby my cool, confident and CEO-esque persona is pulled back to reveal what truly lies behind the curtain.

 _Nothing_.

"Christian. Forgive my presumption but I cannot let you do that."

I feel myself stiffen. Twisting slightly to face her, my glare is glacial. She can't _let_ me? This isn't a fucking debate. This isn't some kind of mock trial for the shits and giggles of it. This is my life. And it's going down the shitter. Coming here in the first place, going to that police station, was a momentous mistake in judgment. Elena was never going to be taken down by me. Not after all these years. She would've had her game plan prepared in the event of this eventuality from the first time she ever laid a hand on me.

"Miss Steele. I cannot do this. I apologize for wasting your time."

"You have not wasted my time. Bringing, or any attempt to bring, someone like Elena Lincoln to justice is _never_ a waste of time. There were always going to be these challenges. She was never going to come down here with a white flag and confess everything before asking to be escorted to prison. That's not how this works. It's a dirty, scheming and challenging game of cards. Things go lower than low before they rise high. This is her first shot across the bow. It won't be her last. You weren't prepared for it and that's fine. No one ever is. But this is something you'll never be free from **,** if you run from it now. And you can do this, Christian. I have had people in here, who in my heart and soul, I knew couldn't see their cases through. But you can. _I know you can_."

Sweet baby Jesus.

Why does she have to be so convincing?

Why can't she understand that Elena's press conference will destroy everything I've worked for? That's a pretty good reason to run. It doesn't fill me with the scent of roses, it doesn't thrill me. It makes me sick. My cowardice makes me ill. But what choice is there? I cannot sacrifice GEH this early on. In some way, I thought the press circus was still in the distance. The not so distant distance, sure, but in the distance nonetheless. I needed more time to prepare. To ready my shareholders. To put the hurricane barriers around GEH.

But Elena, the twisted hurricane, is already en route and I'm vulnerable.

"Her going to the media will destroy me and my business, Miss Steele. I appreciate what you are saying and where you are coming from, but I cannot allow that to happen. Regardless of my own ruination, people depend on me for a living. My company puts roofs over heads and food on tables. I need to protect it. At all costs."

Her cobalt eyes see right through my bullshit.

"Christian. It's ok to be afraid. For yourself. Not for your company or your staff. Not for your family or the protection of the Grey name. But for _yourself_. This kind of a case is daunting and draining and anyone who isn't afraid of it, is a fool. I admit that I don't know you very well, but I am willing to wager that you are no fool."

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

I just want to give up. Why can't she just let me give the fuck up?

"You do not understand," I snap, "I didn't have to be dragged or drugged into the classroom. I didn't need to be restrained or intimidated into doing the things I did, or allowing the things I allowed. How do you think that will play in court? What kind of red-blooded male is going to sit there, look at me, and feel _sorry_ for me? Pity me for living every teenage boy's dream of having their mother's hot friend in the sack? They'll think I'm a whining little pussy. And now Elena is going to say that we didn't get together until I was twenty-one. That everything I allege is a figment of my imagination. She's going to make me out to be insane, deluded and a lover scorned. Either way, I'm fucking _screwed."_

She merely looks at me with her maddening fucking serenity of assurance.

"Christian. You're wrong. Ok? You're wrong. I am going to do my level best to stack that jury with as many women as possible. Females have an almost feral response to cases of child abuse. It's the motherly instinct. Of the men I need to have on the jury, I'm going to do whatever it takes to ensure that most, if not all, of them are fathers. Preferably of young or pre-pubescent boys. There are ways around everything you fear. This sense of helplessness you're feeling is exactly what Mr McCallum and Mrs Lincoln are banking on. They're on the run. And like cornered rats, they're striking first and they're going for the jugular. You take them down on this press conference attempt at intimidation, and you **'** ll lay the framework for success. I assure you."

She makes everything sound so doable.

Everything that comes out of her mouth is calm, controlled and concise.

But I cannot allow it to sway me.

"You cannot keep her bullshit out of the media, Miss Steele. I do not doubt your capabilities as a prosecutor. But freedom of speech is freedom of speech, and the first amendment doesn't change for anyone. And it isn't going to change for me."

She nods slowly.

Doesn't try and talk me down on _that_ front, at least.

"No," she agrees softly, "The first amendment is the first amendment. And you're right, it doesn't pick and choose to whom it applies. And I know you're concerned about my youth compared to Frank's experience. That's understandable. But I've spent my entire life working to get where I am, and that meant studying everything and everyone around me. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that if someone thinks you're an idiot, let them think you're an idiot. Be grateful for it. Use it. Frank McCallum thinks I'm a green rookie without a brain cell to spare. And that's a gift. One that I'm going to use and press to its fullest extent."

She smiles at my wide-eyed expression.

"They've given us to the end of the business day tomorrow to succumb to their press conference threat. That gives _us_ to the end of _this_ business day to gain the upper hand. I went to high school with the main anchor of _Washington Weekly News_ station and I took pre-law with the editor-in-chief of _The Washington Mirror_. I can get you in front of a camera and in a sit-down meeting by close of business today. You know as well as I do that the best line of defense, is offense. They're holding this bomb over our heads and the best way to diffuse it is to throw our own before they see it coming. Mrs Lincoln is counting on your fear of the media to silence you. You need to turn that around and embrace the media to defeat her. It's the only way."

I don't faint.

I'm not a fainter.

But, with all due respect to the steel of Miss Steele, I'm about to faint.

Straight out.

"You want to me to stroll in front of a camera, alone, and repeat some of the things I've told you?"

She glances at her watch and at the door.

I glare and open my mouth to inquire as to whether she has more pressing fucking business to attend to, but I'm interrupted by a timid knock on the door. Relief splashes across her face and confusion storms across mine. Who now? Who's about to come in here and make things a million times worse, _now?"_

The Pope himself **,** knowing my luck.

The door creaks open and at least it's not a member of the clergy. It's someone completely unknown, male, about three to four years older than me. I don't know him. I don't want to know him. I don't even want to know what he's doing here. He's obviously Miss Steele's next appointment. We're way over time. He's my escape route and I'm not about to hang around.

"Christian, this is Matthew Delaney. Matthew, this is Christian Grey."

Are we about to have a fucking tea party?

Does she want me to braid his ridiculously long fringe?

She sees my venomous glare and hastily beckons the blond, twenty-something Matthew to our collective side. His outrageous good looks annoy me. I'm shallow enough to want to be the most handsome prick in my own living nightmare. And Matthew is, arguably, the prettiest pretty-boy I have ever seen.

"You were wondering whether I wanted you to go solo in front of the camera, Christian?"

Is she really talking about my case in front of Matt the stranger?

Is she for fucking real?

She ignores my hiss. She actually has nerves of steel, this one.

"After you left the other day, I did a little digging on a hunch I had. And I struck gold with Matthew here. You see, the Elena Lincoln's of this world are as greedy as they are debased and one victim is never enough. Where there is one, there are more. Police complaints of minor abuse can be sealed, but not expunged entirely. I know someone who knows someone and that someone led me to Matthew."

She glances in an unspoken request for permission at the blond beauty and he nods without hesitation, his piercingly green eyes never leaving mine.

"In the three to four years before she began abusing you, Elena was abusing Matthew. In the same manner, in the same _classroom,_ and in the same sort of time scale. She was also a family friend and insinuated herself in the family home and regimen. The only difference is, Matthew's parents aren't as supportive as yours, Christian. He made a complaint to his local police department and after that, went home to tell his parents what had happened to him from the age of fourteen to nineteen. They didn't believe him. Their lack of conviction resulted in the wavering of his own and he withdrew his complaint. His family never spoke of it again and Elena has no idea that they were ever informed or that a police report was filed."

I forget to breathe.

I forget to blink.

I forget to human.

"Matthew regrets the withdrawal of his complaint to this day and now wants to come forward. His case is beyond the statute of limitations. He accepts that, but wants to help you with your case. We believe there are more victims out there, but two is a solid start. So, in answer to your question, Christian, no. No, I do not want you to go solo in front of the camera or in the newspaper. I want you and Matthew to go together. As one. These sorts of cases are like cracks in a windshield. Once one appears, so does another. And another and another. You two will prompt more of Elena's victims to come forward and the case against her will go from strength to strength." She takes a deep breath and looks at me with such a passion in her eyes that whatever air I was about to suck in, gets stripped away.

"So, Christian, what do you say?"

A/N: I've had to use a selective interpretation of the law for this fic. To any of my fellow students/practitioners out there, my apologies. It is a necessary evil for the story to work!


	7. Chapter 7

This is a sick joke.

This is the sickest fucking joke that I have ever heard. And yet, no one is laughing. Miss Steele is staring steadily at me and Matthew doesn't look like he's laughed since Kindergarten. But it's a joke. It must be. Or one hell of an unethical legal move. Elena couldn't have done to Matthew what she did to me. It isn't possible. There's no way in hell that it's possible.

It's not possible because she always said I was special.

She said she was teaching me, and _only_ me, because I was so very special _._ That was the thing that made me smile back then. The fact that she saw such potential in me. The things she told me I would do and be. How different I was to all the other boys my age. How mature and intelligent I was, how developed and discerning I was. She'd never met anyone like me. She told me that all the time. I loved it. Back then, I really did. I felt like she was the only one who really _saw_ me. Our secret sustained me through my teenage years because I reveled in how fucking _special_ I was.

Matthew is, therefore, full of shit.

Elena's interest in me was sick, perverse and calculated.

But _I_ was the only one that she had that sick, perverse and calculated interest in.

Period.

The urge to lay Matthew out on the ground is all-consuming.

My fists twitch against the leash of my societal graces.

"Miss Steele, I hate to burst your bubble," I snap, glaring at the green-eyed imposter. "But this strategy, although creative, is never going to work. Elena's predilections were a singular beast. I was the only object of her distasteful desires. Perhaps Mr Delaney here is looking for a quick pay-day or his fifteen minutes of fame, but I'd rather he didn't procure either of the back of my past. I don't think the matters which we have discussed are a bargaining chip for an opportunist. The answer is no. To all of it. The answer is a resounding no."

It takes everything I have not to slam my knuckles into his porcelain face. The bottom-feeding prick. There are some lows to which I can understand my fellow man sinking to. I've sunk a fair depth in my time to get GEH up and off the ground. I've done things I'm not proud of to get what I want. But this? This is something else. This is veering into psychotown and I don't need another crazy sub-human in my life.

I need to get out of here.

Double fucking time.

Out of courtesy and for the sheer admiration I still grudgingly have for her, I mutter a polite goodbye to the currently silent Miss Steele. She's about to say something or think of something else, but I'm not going to give her the opportunity. She's far too convincing for her own good. I get to the door, hand on handle, inches from freedom before _his_ voice rings out behind me.

"Did she start you off with the cane or the flogger?"

I stiffen.

My spine snaps into a deformed line of crunching uniformity.

"The first time she would've been nicer than nice. She would've made you feel grown, gave you a beer or a glass of wine. Made sure your parents weren't home. She would've spoken to you like you were the most interesting person she'd ever met. Asked about your future. Laughed at your jokes. Put her hand on your shoulder. Then your leg. Then your thigh. Whatever alcohol she gave you would be making you feel ten feet tall. Brave. You wouldn't have felt like a kid anymore. Or a fuck-up. By the time you were on your third glass of wine or beer, her lips were on yours and that was it. Once she got you that far, she had you."

His voice lowers slightly and there's a burning anger in his register.

"She fucking _had_ you."

My chest is constricting.

There's an invisible restraint searing into my skin. It's splintering through my rib cage and strangling my lungs. I cannot draw air. There are spots on my vision. My hand on the door is slippery with my own clammy sweat. Vomit rushes to my mouth. His words lacerate me. Like shrapnel of rusted nails and shards of aged glass. There is no way he could know these things. There is no way he could speak of these things… without having experienced these things.

 _He's just repeated, verbatim, my first time._

There's truth splattered across his face when I twist slowly to face him. There is no deception in his eyes. This isn't a guy after a quick buck. This isn't some prick looking to schmooze in front of the cameras and play the victim. As my mouth runs dry and the truth threatens to engulf me, I realize I was only a notch on Elena's illegal bedpost. A mere number on a chart. There were others before me. _Of course_ there were others before me. There were others after me. _Of course_ there were others after me.

There is probably someone serving her right _now._

Another teenaged boy.

Another child.

My voice is so low I barely recogni **z** e it as my own.

"Were you a fuck-up? Back then. With her. Were you out of control as a teenager?"

Matthew's eyes shine with understanding.

"Unequivocally. I was habitually angry. Fighting. Kicked out of school, bad relationship with my parents. The works."

Miss Steele's voice, slightly softer than the norm, is heard.

"Christian, do you see the pattern? Elena Lincoln is a clever and patient predator. She sought out boys that she knew had troubled relations with their parents. That had well known anger problems. That were spiraling out of control. That was her ticket in. You, Matthew, all the others that are out there. You were vulnerable to her. Not because you were weak or anything of the sort, but because she used your problems as her way in."

The air is boiling hot. It's scalding my lungs.

All her talk. All her concern. All her empathetic monologues about how I needed to turn my life around, were all lines from a script. She was just playing a role. From the play she had written, produced and directed. I was just her in-the-moment prop. To be used until my worth had run out and then cast aside for a, cliché upon cliché, younger model. This day is rapidly becoming the most unendurable of my adult life.

I barely register that Matthew's mouth is moving.

"Mr Grey, I'm not here to make things even harder for you to deal with. Trust me, I know how hard things already are. They're unbearable. All I want to do is to bring that bitch to justice. She ruined our lives. Granted, you're big-time in the business sphere and that's great. But I'm willing to bet that you let no one in, at any time, with no exceptions. I know I don't. I'm barely thirty years old and I'm resigned to living and dying alone. I can't trust anyone. I literally don't know how. And that's due to her. I missed the window to bring my own case and yours is closing, too. Don't make the same mistake I did. Don't let the bitch get away with it."

I stare at him. And I see. I see the blindingly fucking obvious. There's a pattern. A criterion to be filled. A casting procedure to be executed. He's handsome. Like me. He's tall. Like me. He's young. Like me. He's intelligent. Like me. He's articulate. Like me. He's destined to a life of misery at the behest of Elena fucking Lincoln.

 _Like me._

She has a preference.

She's a preferential offender, not an opportunistic one.

Of course she is.

She sought us out. Watched us from afar. Befriended our parents and families. Learned our weaknesses. Used them to get close. Exploited them to hook us in and strengthened them to keep us under control. How could I have _ever_ thought it was just me? How could I have been so mind-numbingly stupid?

"You're willing to do this? These interviews?"

It is only through my years of carving out a persona that keeps everything I'm feeling clear from my voice. It's smooth and controlled, as it always is. My face is impassive, as it always has been. It may be a façade, but after today, it is literally the only thing I have left. Matthew doesn't hesitate as he nods shortly.

"I'm willing, Mr Grey. More than willing, as a matter of fact."

"Christian," I correct quietly.

"Christian," he smiles, and I feel a grudging admiration and respect for him. He has nothing to gain. He cannot be vindicated in a court of law for the years of abuse he suffered. But he's willing to waive his anonymity to help me seek my own brand of justice. That takes a special pair of balls that I can't say I would grow in his position.

Miss Steele clears her throat.

"I know this is a lot for you to take in, Christian. I know that this isn't what you were expecting, and I don't want to rush you. But I _do_ need an answer. To get you both in front of the camera before Elena can drop the hammer, I need to call my contacts now. As in, right now."

There are few moments in life that are path altering.

This is one such a moment.

I know it.

And I'm either going to seize it or run from it.

"Call them. Call your contacts. I'll do the interview."

She nods brusquely and slips her cell from her pocket. Leaving the room, she informs us that she'll be back in a moment. As the door quietly closes behind her, awkwardness fills her void. I glance at Matthew and he glances at me. We both look away. I feel filthy. Contaminated. He is the only person, Elena aside, that knows exactly what I've done and what I've had done to me. A narrative can only go so far to describe The Classroom. Matthew was educated in it. He knows the true depth of depravity that I carry with me. He carries it, too.

I don't know if that makes me like or loathe him.

But I know his help makes me indebted to him.

"Thank you for doing this," I say quietly, not used to saying thank you to anyone, for anything. "Forgive my asking, but there's nothing in this for you. Your window under the statute of limitations has expired. So why do it?"

Matthew smiles a small, sad smile.

"It doesn't really matter to me whether Elena goes to prison for what she did to me, or you, or anyone else. That's the small picture. The big picture is that she _does_ go to prison. For as long as conceivably possible. The big picture is that she can never be in a position where she can ruin another boy's life. Ever again. That's a massive incentive. That's what is in this for me."

I can feel my eyes widen.

Is he some sort of fucking saint?

"And you're happy to waive your right to a private life to do that? You're perfectly willing to have every man and dog on the street know what went on in The Classroom? You're ok with people judging you for the rest of your life?"

Another small and sad smile.

"People don't judge the victim of child abuse by the standards of their abuser, Christian. Nobody is going to look at you in scorn or lose any and all respect for you. Nobody is going to sit down and think to themself that you're disgusting or contaminated. Nobody is going to avoid shaking hands with you because they think you're dirty or diseased. Anonymity doesn't have to be the shield that you cling to. We have nothing to be ashamed of. We have nothing to be embarrassed of and we have nothing to hide. We were children, Christian, we were _children."_

I cannot speak for a moment.

I can only stare.

In downright fucking awe.

Before I have to think of something profound to say, I am spared by Miss Steele. Slipping back into the room, she glances between the two of us and senses she's walked in on something. To her mounting credit, she doesn't ask questions or allow the moment to stagnate. I am beginning to respect this woman in a way I do very, very few people.

"That was my contact at _WWN_. She can give us a sit-down in half an hour. Here. She'll come to us. I've received permission from my boss to do so and he's of the same viewpoint as I. That this is an unorthodox option, but our only option. My contact at the _Washington Mirror_ is also more than happy to give you both a priority slot in tomorrow's edition. He can be here in an hour. We'll do one right after the other. The televised interview will air tonight. Between the two exposures, any attempt by Elena to give a cock-and-bull story will appear contrived and ridiculous. She'll kill her own defen **s** e in the court of public opinion if she tries it and Frank McCallum knows it. He will not permit it."

She raises a brow at the pair of us.

I'm stricken by her continuously calm composure.

She's like a sixty-something in a twenty-something's body.

She is incredible.

"Are you both ok with this? Last chance to say if you are not."

Matthew and I turn to each other in tandem.

He's resolved and determined, there is no apprehension or fear on his face. I am shitting myself and close to hyperventilation. But I allow no fear or apprehension on my face, either. Perhaps his façade is as good as mine. Or perhaps he has balls of molten steel. He nods with conviction. His eyes do not leave mine. He's waiting, she's waiting, and my heart is waiting. For a fucking break from Arrhythmia Town.

"I'm ok with it."

I'm not.

I'm really fucking not.

But I have to be.

Matthew and Miss Steele smile simultaneously. But in my head, I'm burying GEH. I'm mourning it. I cannot buy what Matthew is selling. Though he _is_ an excellent salesman. He is not in the public eye. He doesn't appreciate the feckless nature of the corporate realm. You can be a God one day and a pariah the next. But this is happening. It's happening, and I need to let the pieces fall where they may.

I can only hope that the largest of those pieces doesn't land on my head and crush my skull.

The next half-hour seems to pass by in a blur.

Denise, Miss Steele's contact at _WWN_ arrives and she's a hurricane of efficiency. She directs a team of three young camera and lighting guys with gusto. Matthew and I are poked and prodded mercilessly. To my disgust and to his ease. Lighting stands are erected and shunted this way and that. Miss Steele scribbles furiously and I find myself wondering how many tree deaths per year she's solely responsible for.

It's in the middle of my deforestation concerns that it happens.

The door crashes open with a calamitous crunch.

The force is such that it rebounds with a wail from the wall.

All eyes, including my own, swivel violently to the invasion. Denise and Company jump and blink furiously, before melting into the walls, silently staring. Matthew gazes in plain and prolonged confusion. Miss Steele glares in angry bewilderment. A lack of recognition is seared into every one of their faces.

But not mine.

Disbelief gives way to heart stopping belief.

Air turns to ash in my mouth.

My blood thickens with fear before trickling to a standstill in my veins.

Dry drowning is milliseconds away from consuming my being.

Years have passed. Years and years.

But some faces you never, ever forget. Ever.

It's him.

It's the Crack Whore's Pimp.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything is the same.

From the yellow teeth and the jutting cheekbones to the cold green eyes and the hooked nose. Age has etched its way across his face like dendrochronological rings in a tree. Dark hollows guard his shrewd gaze and the uncontrollable jump of his jawline tells the story of his continued drug use.

My chest expands and strains against the buttons of my shirt.

It's been twenty years. Two decades.

And the terror within is still as pronounced today as it was back then. But it's a different kind of terror. This terror is laced and intertwined with a burning anger and a sense of murderous intent. Shock continues to splinter my soul as I stand there with my dick in my hand. But shock can only protect the mind from harsh truths for so long. It's weird, but I would stand on oath and swear that Miss Steele's pristine office suddenly reeks with stale cigarettes and flat, cheap beer.

The smells of my infancy.

The Crack Whore cowers and trembles in fear inside the bubble of my brain's most guarded secrets. Her weak arms are raised hopelessly in front of her face as he towers above her, screeches of monetary deficit frothing at his thin lips. I see it all from my position of cowardice under the coffee table. I don't go to her, I don't help her, I don't move a muscle. I never did. Not until it was too late, not until she couldn't wake up anymore.

I'm as close to a panic attack as I've ever come.

But then it happens.

I cling to the present and shove the past back in its box of woe. I'm fighting the battle of my scarred adolescence. I'm giving it everything I have, in full knowledge of the cost. _He_ is not going to be the one who sinks my doomed ship even earlier than its fate As the cruel grin spreads across his wasted face, I find the strength that until now, I never knew I had. And that strength comes from a singular, unyielding fact.

The person I was twenty years ago, was the son of a whore.

The person I am _now,_ is Christian **F** ucking Grey.

My voice is the smooth silk that I've learned to spin like the most elegant and deadly of spiders.

"Miss Steele, Matthew, please indulge me for a moment. I clearly need to tell you about this man. He is Jake Carver. And to explain Jake Carver to you both, you must allow me the tangent of explaining my family tree. I promise to be brief. You see, I was not born Christian Grey. I am the adopted son of Grace and Carrick Grey. My biological mother was a young, uneducated and impoverished prostitute that resided in the tenements of Detroit. Jake served, for at least four years, as her pimp and drug dealer."

I see a shard of light implode into darkness in Miss Steele's eyes.

Interesting.

"Jake was an exceptionally demanding employer and seems to have been born without the basic morality most of humanity clings to. He would beat, burn and berate my biological mother on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. Only when he tired of that activity, would he turn his attention and predilections towards me, her then infant son. When I was four years old, perhaps out of sheer necessity, my mother committed suicide and I was removed from our residence and placed into the adoption system. I have not seen or heard from Jake since that time."

I know now why he's here.

I know it deep down in my bones.

"Before today, only one other person outside my parents knew of this early chapter in my life. That person is Elena Lincoln. I am not generally a betting man, but I am willing to wager GEH and whatever else I possess, that Jake is present now, at her bidding. Her scheming. I'm willing to bet that he is part of an insurance policy Elena crafted years ago in anticipation of this suit, no matter how unlikely she considered it. I'm more than happy to gamble on the fact that she has greased Jake's palm slicker than an oil spill to be here today for the sole purpose of sinking this case. What he's going to say or how he's going to do it, I don't know. But I'm sure it's going to be good. An Elena Lincoln **S** pecial that's been in the works for the better part of a decade."

My heart is hissing under the exertion I'm placing upon it.

But it doesn't matter. Because a breakthrough is a breakthrough.

Dr Flynn can go ahead and kiss my filthy rich ass.

Because _t_ _hat_ right there… that was fucking therapy.

Jake captures my attention. All of it. Miss Steele and Matthew melt into the magnolia walls. It's just me and him. In an arena that I never saw him entering, but in hindsight, I should have baked a cake in anticipation of this moment. Between our fucking and flogging sessions, Elena and I used to play chess. Weird upon weird, granted. But she is an excellent fucking chess player. Always three or four steps ahead. This case is nothing more than a complex game to her. Jake is her second offensive strike. He will not be the last. She's already five moves past him as he stands before me.

The slightness of his torso strikes me.

The firmness of my own captivates me.

I'm the bigger one, now. I'm the stronger one.

We've come full circle.

"I always knew you would grow up to be a cocky little bastard," he laughs, and the sound of it grates upon my nerves, fraying their endings. "You were always a freak. From your abnormal eyes right down to your smart mouth. Even as a toddler, always with the mouth. All I did was try to instill a little discipline into you. It's not as if you had a father to do it now, is it? But even then, I knew there was something wrong with you. Mentally speaking."

And there it is.

The plan.

It has Elena's red lipstick signature all over it.

Simple, but effective.

"You're going to say the trauma of my youth, all the shit with my biological mother has scarred me to the point where I'm utterly imbalanced," I state flatly. "You're going to stand on oath and swear that, having known me from childhood, I exhibited delusional tendencies from an early age. That I was an emotionally detached and peculiar child who made up shocking stories about those around me. That as an adult, you are not surprised to find me embroiled in a case where I allege astonishing and disgusting untruths against a fine and upstanding woman like Elena Lincoln. That's the game plan, isn't it?"

The slow and cruel smile is the one that plagues my dreams.

It spreads slowly across his face like the cancer he is.

"You always were, to your credit, a clever little bastard," Jake says quietly. "That about sums it up, yes. But I'm not here because Elena paid me off. I'm here because it's the truth and I can't stand by while you drag her name through the mud to appease your sick little mind. You're not well, Christian. You never have been. Even dear, sweet Ella used to worry herself sick about you and your peculiarities. I don't want to say that you were the only reason she took that overdose, but it's fair to say you were a deciding factor. I guess she couldn't bear to watch her little freak grow into a big freak. It's sad, really. Very sad."

I'm quick but Matthew is quicker.

He's as fast as fucking lightning.

His restraining arm snakes around my waist and hauls me back as white foam froths with fury at my mouth. My mind is blank. A white-hot tongue of anger licks my intestines and spurs my momentum. I strain against the bond of Matthew's arm and Miss Steele's amazingly calm words of warning are lost on me. I hate the Crack Whore. I loathe her.

And I loved her.

His words are careful and calculated. He needs to draw a reaction, set me off. Elena would have told him exactly how to do it. Shit, I practically drew the bitch a roadmap to my most bitter of buttons. Jake smiles coolly at my descent into chaos, his sadistic appetite being treated to an all you can eat buffet. It's only Matthew's quiet words, murmured directly into my ear that halts the heaving advance.

"You're too old to still be her puppet, Christian. _Think_ on what you do

I deflate faster than a pierced hot air balloon.

Matthew removes his arm and I stand unaided. Years have passed since I felt such a loss of control. My blood sloshes in my ears and my teeth are coated in my own vitriol. But I pull it back. All I need is my mask, it's never far from me; I wear it every single day. Within a moment and a blink of an eye, it's on.

And I'm Christian Grey again.

"You will regret this," I state calmly, envisioning my boardroom, "You will not escape from this unscathed. I did not pursue you for the suffering you afflicted upon me as a child. That was a conscious decision. I chose that path. But if you do this, if you go through with this and lie in court in exchange for a brown envelope from Elena, I'll ruin you. I'll find what little happiness you have in your miserable, empty existence and I will take it from you. When you least expect it."

The widening of his eyes is the only betrayal of his emotion.

And he quickly contracts them back to size.

"You cannot threaten your way out of the truth, little boy. You need help. You need to see a therapist or whatever people like you do when your feelings are hurt. But you're not going to ruin Elena just to get your rocks off. She contacted me years ago based on your lies about me. After ten minutes with me she knew I could never do the things you allege. We've become close friends. Very close friends. And I can't let you do this to her. I just can't."

There's a tapping sound in the peripherals of my mind.

My mouth runs dry.

"Close friends? Elena doesn't have friends. Elena has strategically selected acquaintances. Weapons. You need to spare me your bullshit. Not content with destroying the life of my biological mother and abusing her only child, you're back to finish the job. Be a man, grow some balls and at least fucking admit it. But don't say you weren't warned. When you're standing in the ashes of your life, don't say that you weren't fucking warned."

He opens his mouth, something smarting on his lips, but he's cut off.

Miss Steele's voice startles me.

In tandem we turn to her, as she sits behind her computer.

That was the tapping sound.

"Jake Carver, is it? Excuse my interruption into this little stage show of yours but I've just run your name through this office's database… and cross-referenced that search with the national database. Unless I'm either blind or illiterate, you have an open warrant for eight counts of solicitation of prostitution in Baltimore. Released on bail you absconded, and never stood trial. That was three years ago, and the warrant is still outstanding. Hmm _such_ a coincidence, as Aaron Weller, the ADA there is a firm friend of my father's. Growing up, he was like an uncle to me. I haven't spoken to him in years and I really do owe him a call."

Her slim hand slithers towards her desk phone.

Jake's face distorts into an ashen sheet of sickly white.

Miss Steele's face is a calm summer's breeze.

My mouth drops open and Matthew stares at her like he's never seen a woman before in his life.

I take a moment to be weirdly fucking annoyed by that.

"You can't threaten me like that," Jake says weakly, "You're a government official. You represent the state. You're supposed to uphold the law, not circumvent it. I'll go to your boss. Fuck it, I'll go to your boss's boss and tell them exactly what's going on in here. You'll be out of a job just long enough to really enjoy puberty."

She smirks.

I've never seen her smirk before.

It fucking suits her.

"Mr Carver, do use your two brain cells wisely. I am an esteemed ADA, the youngest ever in this state, and I have connections that would make your head spin. No one, absolutely no one, is going to take the word of someone like you over someone like me. All that has transpired within these four walls is that I politely asked you to leave… as you have created a most unsavory fuss."

Her steely blue eyes swivel to Matthew and me.

"Isn't that right, gentleman?"

We nod like extras in a low budget film.

Jake withers like last month's hyacinths.

"Now, Mr Carver, for the sake of clarity I will need to depose you at your earliest convenience if you wish to continue with your testimony. Mrs Lincoln's attorney will advise you in regards to same and my secretary will be in touch to arrange a suitable time. Of course, travel to a Maryland jail will be cumbersome for me so I would appreciate as much notice as possible. You understand, don't you?"

The cowardice I mistook for power as a child scalds his face.

He crumbles into a thousand pieces of formless filth.

And some of the darkness within me wriggles into the light.

"I don't think that I have the time to commit to this farce," he spits. "Elena will just have to understand. I'm a busy man and this isn't my fight. I don't want to give my testimony. I don't have the time. No matter how well intentioned I am."

He turns to glare at me and I offer him a rare smile.

A sincere fucking smile.

"Your time will come you little prick," he seethes, "You're just like your mother. Aspirations beyond your station. And look how well that ended for her. You'll fare no better. Pride cometh before the fall. Remember that, you fucked up jerk."

Violence is too good for this spineless specimen.

I offer him what he deserves, instead.

Pity.

"Find Jesus, Jake. You need him in your life."

Matthew snorts in laughter as Mr Carver pivots like an ancient ballerina with an artichoke up her ass and storms from the room. The walls vibrate with the slamming of the door and a silence sprinkles like dust in his wake. A breath that's managed to linger in my lungs since his arrival seeps from me like a noxious gas and I inhale deeply.

I feel all eyes on me.

I return their gaze with a raised brow.

"I don't know why there's all this fuss about the Kardashians. My life is _way_ more interesting."


	9. Chapter 9

This is really happening.

No one speaks another word of Jake. Professionalism is rife within these four walls. Denise and her sycophantic trio of idiots resume their poking and prodding of first Matthew, then me, with little to no remorse. There's a microphone attached to my shirt and it veers dangerously close to the no-go regions of my chest. Granted, it's just a piece of plastic, but rules are rules.

Miss Steele observes her troops like a general converging into battle.

Suddenly, I feel quite certain that she grew up in a military background.

No one is that fucking composed, _all_ the fucking time.

My palms twitch and I clench them into fists discreetly. CEOs don't sweat under pressure. Christian Grey doesn't sweat under pressure. Especially when he's seated next to Matthew the fucking Magnificent. I sneak a sideways look at him and experience a rare bout of jealousy. He's genuinely _okay._ He doesn't think he's dirty or diseased. He doesn't believe himself to be deserving of the darkness that blankets us both and he's smart enough to accept that his life will never be what it should have been.

I am not there yet.

That's what GEH is about, in a way. My stand against the law of action and reaction. My two fingers to living my life as a stereotype. People always drone on about how driven and determined I am, how refreshing it is to see in one so young. But they don't know what compels me. They don't know that I have no choice but to toil over my creation. I slave and sweat over my flourishing legacy because, splendiferous, as it is, it is all I have. I do not have a personal life. Shit, I don't even have a single friend outside of my immediate family.

Of that, at least, Elena was dead fucking right.

I have roamed this world for twenty-four years and have garnered the affections of a total four people out of a possible seven and a half billion. I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure that percentage makes me less personable than Ted fucking Bundy. _Serial killers_ have more of a social circle than I do. And now, I must parade myself like a Magic Mike extra in front of Denise's intrusive camera, and try to garner pity on a massively public scale.

I feel like a fucking prostitute.

Except, even worse, I don't need people's money. I need their sympathy. I need them to look at me and frown in horror at the suffering of my past. I need them to look at me and hold their own sons tightly to their chests and picture Elena as some kind of… _Mrs Robinson_. This is not my forte, this is not my strength. Surrendering control to regain control is something I find… difficult.

"You all right in there, Christian?"

I blink at Matthew's voice, turning in surprise.

"In where?"

His smile is patient and kind and I wonder suddenly why I can't be like him. People shy away from me. Children don't smile at me the way they do Elliot or Mia when we visit my mom at the hospital. My employees are respectful to the max and defer to me without question, but they don't like me. Not that I give a shit, obviously. But Matthew has an easy-going nature about him, his eyes are warm and twinkling. He pulls you in. He is the anti-me.

"In your head?"

I shrug, always the nonchalant mogul.

"Fine. How're you doing?"

"I'm afraid," he admits easily. "This is a pretty big deal, there's no going back, but it's a good thing. We're doing a good thing. Once we get rolling it'll be easier. The waiting is the hardest part."

My eyes bulge out of my head.

He has to be the damned Dalai Lama in disguise.

There's no other explanation, but thankfully, I am spared the ordeal of coming up with something profound to say in reply. Denise is suddenly hovering in front of me and her mouth is moving so fast I get sea-sick looking at it. Apparently spying my bewilderment, Miss Steele melts from the shadows and subtly shoos Denise to badger Matthew as she stares down at me in my interview chair. Her voice is low and slow, and her confident blanket of calm extends to drape over my shoulders.

"This is going to be difficult and you're going to be uncomfortable. I understand that, and I wish it could be different, but it isn't, so listen closely. I don't want you answering anything with too much specificity. I have coached Denise on what I do and do not want asked and answered, but she may veer off script and dig deeper. We're just covering the basics here. I need the shock factor for the trial. Your narrative is this: You were fifteen and she was a trusted family friend. She abused her position of trust and engaged you in sexual activity that developed into a relationship of molestation that spanned years and years. She sexually, physically and emotionally abused you in secrecy throughout your mid-to-late adolescence. You are now ready to seek justice for those crimes committed against you, in the hopes that no other boy will ever suffer like you did."

She draws a deep, long breath and eyes me searchingly.

"Do you understand?"

This woman should be out brokering international peace. I take a moment to ponder the efficacy of employing an in-house legal team, starring hers truly. People sue me all the time. I'm a bastard. People sue bastards. I retain Seattle's most prominent law firm and they are at my disposal at all times. But wouldn't it be more efficient to have someone within my walls, carefully guarding my interests? I table that idea and nod slowly as she raises a brow, ignoring the sweat that threatens to betray my terror.

"I understand."

She hesitates for the briefest moment before dropping her voice.

"We need to emphasize the point that we want more victims to come forward. We believe there are many others and we implore them to report their abuse. This cannot look like a trial by media, this interview cannot look like a publicity stunt. We cannot give the impression that we're trying to throw a firework in Mrs Lincoln's yard. We need to blend what we _need_ with what the public will respond the most viscerally to. This is about you _and_ it's about other potential victims. Past and present. I need you to read between the lines on this, okay?"

I take a moment to stare at her while Matthew shrinks under Denise's barrage of preliminary questions. She wants me to play down my needs by thinking about the needs of others. Rather, she wants me to _appear_ to play down my needs by thinking about the needs of others. I immediately see her thinking. By simply conducting a tell-all interview, we won't attract the kind of pitchfork-wielding keyboard warriors that we need. We need more. More than Matthew and me. Two is good, sure, but bigger is always better.

In all things.

I nod my understanding to her as my throat begins to tighten. This is the beginning of the end. My anonymity, my beautiful solitude, is about to disintegrate. From this day on, I'm an Oprah sound bite. The pre-interview fussing is almost at an end and I grit my teeth with a small growl as Denise takes it upon herself to _increase my approachability_ by fluffing my hair.

 _Fluffing_ my _hair._

Miss Steele hurriedly re-emerges and distracts her attention.

I burn with gratitude.

Nobody touches my fucking hair.

I'm Christian Grey for fucks sake.

The blinds are drawn, the lights are erected and tinkered with, and a microphone check is conducted. I decide fully upon my dislike for Denise when she sits down opposite Matthew and me. Her nails are a garish shade of red. I hate red nails, and those crimson claws are matched in severity by her clown-red lips. Her face is caked in thick make-up and her bleach-blonde hair is a straight-up fire hazard.

She reminds me of Elena.

Next to her, Miss Steele attracts my sincere approval. Her dark hair is smooth and sleek, tied elegantly at the nape of her neck. Her pantsuit is feminine, but professional. Her white shirt is a dazzling shade of brilliance. Her make-up is minimal, a light dusting to enhance her features and her nails are discreetly polished in the lightest of pink hues.

I twist my eyes away from them both.

And once again contemplate my sexuality.

But, in my defense, her pantsuit is one sharp fucking suit.

I appreciate a good pinstripe. Even if it is, horror upon horror, off the rack.

"Christian, are you ready? Matthew?"

Denise's smoker voice cuts through my fashion considerations and I blink like a gormless idiot. I feel Matthew's green gaze flicker to me and my persona rolls his eyes and aims a kick at my balls. _Get it together, Grey._ Throwing back my shoulders like the pompous little prick I am, I nod with a confidence I do not feel. I offer Matthew a nod of his own and he smiles at me with that fucking smile that I'm beginning to realize is his tell of knowing a lot more than he lets on.

I have an eerie feeling that he sees right through me.

And I don't like it.

My mask has never before been penetrated.

And I don't want my first ever penetration to be a male penetration.

No matter how fashion conscious I am.

Denise holds up a hand with three fingers splayed upwards in a countdown. I close my eyes as my life flashes before them. In three seconds, everything I have built will be in flux, defenseless against the tsunami of public opinion. In a way, Matthew is the only thing keeping me in my seat. In all things, I'm an overly-competitive alpha male. And I can just tell, as reading people _is_ my forte, that Matthew is no stranger to being the biggest and brightest in any given room.

If he can do it, I sure as shit can do it better.

I mentally schedule an additional appointment with Flynn. Turning this shit into a competition means I'm sicker than I thought. It's too hot. I'm prickled with unseasonable heat and my throat is running drier than the Sahara on steroids.

 _One…._

What am I doing? What the _fuck_ am I _doing?_ There's no turning back now. I've put myself in a corner. If I leave now, I am weak. If I don't, I am naked. Christ above, I will _stab_ Flynn when I see him. This was all his idea. _Closure,_ he called it. I can find fucking closure at the end of a vintage bottle of Sancerre. That British bastard is responsible for this. I'll have his balls on a platter.

 _Two…._

Dogs. I could always take up a dog habit. All the cool CEOs are doing it. That would provide temporary closure, at my own discretion. Canines have been scientifically proven to increase serotonin levels in the brain. I'd look the dogs bollocks walking to work with my pet pug, Bartimus, in tow. I must get Taylor to look into that.

 _Three…._

I am about to discuss my cock and all the different places it has been in front of a national audience. I am about to detail the early sexual misadventures of the poor gray-eyed boy from the slums of Detroit. I am about to open my private life up to a public inspection. I am about to murder my past and give birth to an uncertain future.

"Good evening, Washington. I'm Denise Darrer and today, I'm here with Mr Christian Grey of Grey Enterprises Holdings and Dr Matthew Delaney of Seattle Municipal Hospital. This is going to be an interview of the ages, so be sure to stay tuned and pay attention!"

I blanch inwardly.

Nothing in the room has changed.

The lights are the same, the cameras are the same, and the people are the same. But I am suddenly and acutely aware that my five o'clock shadow is being beamed out all over the fucking nation. And of course, I should have sussed that Matthew was a Doctor. He probably tends to the needs of poverty and disease stricken children in his free time. I am going to look like a soulless, corporate prick next to Matthew the Magnificent Medical Marvel.

Fuck sake.

Denise's bright and breezy voice doesn't help matters, either.

We're not here to announce mine and _Dr_ Delaney's impending nuptials.

Mentally incompetent bitch.

"Given the nature of this interview, we must advise viewer discretion. Discussions of an explicit nature are coming up and if there are little eyes watching and little ears listening, it might be time for bed! For all those who remain, I think some more detailed introductions are in order."

She turns her bright eyes to me.

The camera behind her swivels like an antenna protruding from her head.

I feel violated.

But I know I look cool, calm and collected.

I sure as shit am not about to let my mask slip on the national stage.

"So, Mr Grey, we'll start with you. Most of us are familiar with your rise to commercial power, but for those who aren't business savvy, could you tell us a little bit about yourself?"

Oh my Holy Jesus.

I cannot even turn to glare at the corner crouching Miss Steele.

She is to remain out of view.

 _Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?_

Well, gee, sure. Let me see. I fluctuate between diagnosing myself as a sadist and a psychopath on a daily basis. I like to tie little brown-haired girls up in my playroom and fuck and flog them senseless, before sending them swiftly on their way. I like a good run in the morning, and I prefer my eggs scrambled. I do not know how to function in a social setting that isn't about making my millions into billions and I also prefer silk boxers to cotton y-fronts. Oh, and I also dislike _anyone_ who orders their steak well done. It ought to be fucking illegal and a formal apology should be issued to the sacrificial cow's surviving family.

Does that about cut it?

 _Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?_

Fuck me.

I lick my dry lips and act like the question doesn't throw me for a loop.

"Certainly. As you have said, I am the CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings, which is a company I set up shortly after my twenty-first birthday. I am now twenty-four and most of my time and efforts are taken up with putting GEH on the map by bridging the gap between the telecommunications of today and the telecommunications of the future. In the years to come, I hope to branch into the clean, renewable energy movement through fostering and promoting commercial alliances with the developing world."

There.

Pitch fucking perfect.

Denise's plastic smile falters just a jot and I reali **z** e she was looking for something more… personal.

Sorry bimbo blondest, I don't _do_ personal because I don't _have_ personal.

"Excellent, very interesting," she enthuses in a breathless voice that makes my skin shrivel, before turning expectantly to Matthew.

"Dr Delaney, the same question?"

He smiles.

I didn't.

"Sure, Denise. I was born and raised in Washington. Went to Harvard for med school and thought about taking up an internship there after graduating, but homesickness got the better of me and home I came. I'm currently a pediatrics resident, and hope to specialize in neo-natal surgery as an attending. I'm into the outdoors, so when I'm not working, you're pretty sure to find me out hiking or camping. And that's me, really."

Denise beams at him and he smiles easily right back at her.

I am well and truly out of my fucking depth.

Next thing he'll be talking about how he builds shelters for hedgehogs.

Whereas I am just a prick rivaling the sum total of their prickles.

"Now that we have the formalities out of the way, why don't you both tell me what we're doing here today. What do you want to achieve from this interview, what's it all about? Why don't we hear from you first, Mr Grey?"

I feel violently and acerbically sick.

This is it.

This is really it.

But I am a firm proponent of biting the bullet.

So I may as well clamp the fuck down.

"Well Denise, this is a form of public appeal, of sorts. As you said, the public is familiar with me on the basis of my work and the success I have been fortunate enough to enjoy. What the public doesn't know is the motivation behind that success. What drives me isn't just the high of achievement or the sound of money falling into my accounts. My drive is something much deeper than that. It is much more personal than that. My ambition isn't something I naturally possess, it's something I created as a coping mechanism. When I was fifteen years old, I was sexually assaulted by a close and middle-aged friend of my mother's when we were alone in my family home. Her name is Elena Lincoln. And when I say sexually assaulted, the legal term is rape. That singular event sparked the beginning of a sordid relationship of secret and perverse molestation that spanned several years before I finally found the strength to see the truth."

The room is deathly silent, and my impromptu defense of dissociation is working.

This is just another meeting.

Another boardroom.

There are answers expected of me and I always have the answers.

With my mask and my smooth tongue, I can get through this.

I _have_ to get through this.

"Given the very precise and almost compulsive behavior and needs exhibited by Mrs Lincoln, I am confident that there are other victims, both past and present, out there today. I am quite sure that I was but a number in a pile of numbers and that her span of devastation was and remains, wide. It has taken me several years, but I have finally reported my own personal abuse to the police and a criminal case is being brought against Mrs Lincoln for her actions. But my suffering is no more important or abhorrent than the suffering of others. And that is why we are here today, to reach out to those others in the hope that they too, will file a complaint with the police and put an end to her historical campaign of rampant pedophilia. I am one of the lucky few who found a way to channel my abuse into the creation of something I love. But that sort of outlet is an exception rather than the rule, and there are others out there who aren't as lucky. I urge them to come forward."

Denise's eyes widen and a sliver of surprised admiration wriggles and dies in her river of foundation. With a nodding head, a somber expression that wouldn't be out of place in a funeral home, she turns to Matthew and tilts her head like a fucking cockapoo.

"And Dr Delaney, tell us, just where do you fit into this terrible tale?"

Matthew swallows but grits his teeth and gets right down to it.

"Mrs Lincoln was also a friend of my mother's. She was a family friend. And just like Mr Grey, when we found ourselves alone in my family home, she sexually assaulted me. I was fourteen. Again, the legal term for that sexual assault is rape and from that rape, a sordid relationship between young teenager and middle-aged woman emerged. She preyed upon my very well-known vulnerabilities and exploited them for her own perverse end. Like Mr Grey, years went by before I saw the reality for what it was and broke myself free from a very damaging situation. Unfortunately, I waited too long to press my own suit and the statute of limitations for her crimes against me has expired. I am here now in a purely supportive capacity, in solidarity with Mr Grey. And for all the others out there. I am quite sure that many victims of Mrs Lincoln walk amongst us and I implore them to come forward and seek justice for the terrible wrongs that have been done to them."

Denise nods with tabloid, sensationalist shock and I look away.

She disgusts me.

"And did you both know each other, back then?"

It's an open-ended question and it's up for grabs. I blink in relief when Matthew steps up and takes it.

"No. I am a few years older than Mr Grey and we did not know each other in adolescence. We met very recently, in connection with his case. Mrs Lincoln was and remains far too clever to engage two boys who may know each other, even in the slimmest and most marginal sense. That's what you need to understand about her, Denise, she is the most dangerous kind of offender because her intelligence and patience levels are sky high. She will wait for the right victim, no matter how long it takes. And that is why she is such a pressing risk to our youth today. Which is what this interview is all about. Minimi **z** ing and eliminating that risk."

Fuck _me_ he's good.

He's better than good.

He's got a mouth like a serpent's ass.

Smooth and sleek.

"I see," Denise murmurs in muted horror. "And tell me, Mr Grey, can you give us a detailed accounting of the overall nature of your relationship of abuse by Mrs Lincoln? How did you feel at the time, were you afraid of her, did your parents ever come close to finding out? That kind of thing."

I regard her coolly.

"On advice of counsel, I cannot go into too much detail Denise, but I can tell you that Mrs Lincoln engaged me in some highly perverse sexual activities. Her perversions are intensely ingrained, and she practiced those perversions with a fervor. Yes, I was afraid of her, but not in the basic sense. It is very difficult to explain and perhaps now is not the time to try. And no, my parents only became aware of the abuse very recently from myself. They had no idea, through no fault of their own. They couldn't possibly have know **n,** Mrs Lincoln ensured their ignorance through her strategic manipulation of me over a long period of time. They are blameless and I must stress that point. My mother and father are fine people and exemplary parents."

I have _got_ to get that in there.

Grace and Carrick are the kind of parents orphans like me dreamt of.

So it'll be over my dead fucking body that they're besmirched as negligent right now.

Denise has the sense to heed my tone and nods briskly.

"Mr Grey, I'm sure you're aware that the separation between the private and the professional is ruthlessly enforced in business, and even more so, in high-stakes business such as yours. Do you have any concerns that these shocking revelations will negatively impact your business and the reputation you have built for yourself?"

Jesus Christ.

There it is. My biggest fear.

Spewed out between garishly red and artificially pumped-up lips.

I spy Miss Steele's expression out of the corner of my eye.

She is not fucking impressed.

This is an off-script question.

"No, Denise," I lie coldly, smoothly, "I have no such concerns. Grey Enterprises Holdings is my creation and my passion. I have built it brick by brick, dollar by dollar, off the back of my own sweat and instinct. Business is business. I don't know about the rest of the world, but I make my commercial decisions on the basis of cold, hard merits. Not on the basis of who's who and the weekly scandal. And that method seems to be working very well for me.

She smiles a simpering smile at me, but it doesn't meet her eyes.

She's been fucking told.

"Dr Delaney, will you be standing by Mr Grey at the trial of Elena Lincoln?"

He nods without hesitation.

"Every step of the way, Denise."

She smiles a wide smile at him, and it does meet her eyes.

Someone has a soft spot for the Doctor.

"And finally, Mr Grey, I know that our time is short, and we must be careful what we disclose right now lest it jeopardize your case. With that in mind, is there anything else you would like to say before we part ways?"

Is she waiting for some kind of Dead fucking Poets Society speech?

I take a deep breath.

"Mostly, I would like to once again reach out to those who are, for their own personal reasons, reluctant to seek justice for the abuse they have suffered. I understand those reservations. Truly, I do. But to attain any form of closure, Mrs Lincoln must be called upon to answer for her despicable actions. That is what I am trying to do, but as it is within my company, many hands make light work. I'm calling out for those hands."

Suddenly, I am seized with an unshakable need.

"Finally, I would like to applaud the efforts of Miss Anastasia Steele, the ADA assigned to my case. In the short time since I have known her, Miss Steele has battled tirelessly and intelligently on my behalf. I rest assured in the knowledge that my case is in more than capable hands, and would like to extend that assurance to those who are hesitant to come forward and deal with a public office that they may be completely unfamiliar with."

Once again in my peripheral vision, I spy her reaction.

It is the first time I have ever seen her blush.

A strange sensation seeps through me in response, drenching me.

I cannot identify it.

But it is… pleasant.

Strange.

Denise smiles that smile that I loathe and wraps things up with some meaningless platitude or other. The baking hot lights are suddenly flickered off. Microphones are whipped from mine and Matthew's person and I feel a lightness flutter through my pockmarked chest. I feel as close to peace as I've ever come, which is still pretty tormented, but an improvement all the same.

It doesn't hurt to breathe.

For now, anyway.

I manage to nod at Denise as she blunders on and on, before moving to her real interest, Matthew. Miss Steele melts out of the shadows and materiali **z** es to my side in the space of one blink. Her files are clutched, as ever, securely in her hands and she offers me an impressed smile.

"You did amazingly, Christian, you truly did."

I think I smile at her.

My lips do the thing that other people's do when they smile.

But it could just be a nervous tick, I'm not sure.

"I was well coached, Miss Steele."

She hesitates for a moment, and stares at me searchingly. Her wide eyes are impossibly blue up close. It's like gazing into the waters of the Caribbean. She laughs a lot. I can tell. She has those crinkles around her eyes that are well suited to dancing in mirth. Her sense of conflict confuses me, her hesitance is new, and I raise a brow slowly. Smiling with an odd sense of confident shyness, she gives a small little shrug of her slender shoulders.

"You can call me Ana, if you like."

I stare like she's just shoved a stray thunderbolt up my ass and swallow thickly.

There's an odd and previously unfelt sensation in my stomach.

I hope it isn't appendicitis.

"Ana."


	10. Chapter 10

Despite the plentiful and pretentiously vintage that litters Escala, I rarely partake.

Alcohol impairs the senses and reduces control. A loss of self-control is very rarely acceptable to me, but tonight, is the slam fucking dunk of all exceptions. Andrea is fielding my calls, save for my personal cell, and she is in for the mother load of all raises. Not a single question did she ask, not a single syllable of nauseating pity did she utter, and not a single awkward silence did she initiate. She acted as if the interview with _WWN_ was just another press release, like I was announcing another branch of GEH's expansion. She was all _Mr Grey_ this and _Mr Grey_ that. Nothing was different in her efficient tone.

Flynn will have a label for it, but her efficiency is everything I need right now.

She is one of my three most trusted and valued employees. If she can act as though my sordid past is nothing more than a situation to be managed, then so can Taylor and Ros. The rest of my masses, I don't really care about. They still fear me and fear, rightly or wrongly, inspires the respect that I so unhealthily desire and need. There is a possibility, that even with the disease-ridden cat out of the darkest of bags, that I can still maintain my CEO persona. There is a glimmer of hope that I can still walk the halls of my own creation and that glimmer of hope is what I needed this evening, above all else. The conversations I had with my mother, father and siblings took everything I had in the personal sense of things, I _need_ the professional sense of things to remain simpatico with strident success.

I stand and stare out the glass pupil of my window into the night.

Seattle twinkles innocently up at me. She is the same city I have always known. There are no plumes of smoke rising from the epicentre of my life. There is no support group of placard clutching chanters assembled outside my building. Everything is the same, nothing is the same, and everything and nothing are one in the same. Fuck me, this is yet another reason why I don't drink recreationally. It makes me philosophical. Mia tells me that I'm annoying enough without adding another irritating trait to the pile. I see my rare smile in my reflected image as I think of her. If there was an alternate universe out there where I was well-adjusted and normalized, with a healthy reproductive drive, Mia is everything I would want my hypothetical daughter to be.

Pure.

Kind and pure.

I think about the proposed… date? I'm not sure on the appropriate vernacular, I've never been in this situation. But I _think_ Matthew asked me out on a date. As in, a social meeting involving the consumption of alcohol in a public place with no business or societal benefit. Is that a date? Does he think I'm gay? Is he gay? I could have Taylor check, but then would _he_ think that I'm gay and going on a date with my fellow survivor? Of course, there's absolutely nothing at all wrong with being gay, but I don't want Matthew slipping into his silkiest of boxer shorts because he thinks he's on some kind of promise. I don't put out that way.

I said yes.

I mean, sure, I understand the theory of it all. I've seen Elliot stumble in and out of the house with his cohort of loyal yahoos. He and they have been drinking, womanizing and socializing since high school. They're _friends._ I always thought it was such a strange concept. There was nothing to be gained from placing trust in people you cannot control. I'm sure Elliot has spilled his deepest, darkest secrets to his trio of bromantic loving pals over the years.

How does he sleep at night?

Maybe it's because I'm getting a little on the tipsier side of things, but I'm more confused by the concept of friendship than ever before. I've never had a friend. I don't know how they work. But… I cannot deny that I like Matthew and I'm not used to liking anyone. I tolerate people because they are an unpleasant means to a wealthy end. I've never found myself at ease with anyone other than my family. Ever. Perhaps it's the psychological kinship I share with Matthew, our vat of shared experiences, but I felt relaxed around the good doctor today.

This whole trial bullshit is absolutely messing with my head.

It's when I'm weighing the pros and cons of pouring my sixth Scotch that my cell rings.

I do not recognize the number, but it's my personal cell, so hey fucking ho.

"Grey."

Sometimes, silence is more revealing than words and I instantly know who it is.

"I saw your spotlight interview today, boy. Yours and that self-righteous little prick of a Matthew Delaney's. Up until today, I was willing to let this bullshit go. I really was. I was amenable to the concept that you were having some kind of mental fucking breakdown, and that you'd snap the hell out of it with some well-placed medication and a trip to Hawaii. But what you've done today is a declaration of a war that you cannot win, you snivelinglittle shit. You think Jake is all I have? He was the warm-up _to_ the warm-up. He was nothing. What I have coming down the line for you is going to be your destruction, of mind and body. You betrayed me, you ungrateful little bastard. You were my favorite boy, my most prized possession. You turned out even better than my wildest of dreams imagined. And in one fell swoop, on the crackpot advice of a bowtie wearing Brit, you've ruined everything we ever built."

I wait for it.

The fear. The cold-water shock kind of fear that shuts down your internal organs, spasms your neurons in painful paralysis, leading to a slow and inevitable death. But it doesn't come. Her hissing, spitting voice doesn't pierce me, doesn't shock me, doesn't faze me. How she got my new cell number is a more pressing concern than the deluded and deranged shit she's spouting. I see myself frown in my reflection and Seattle frowns right back up at me.

"Elena, how did you get this number?"

Even her silence smells of desperation.

"Christian Trevelyan-Grey, you pompous little shit from the tenements of Detroit, you better open up those overlarge ears and listen closer than close. There are some acts and actions that are recoverable and there are some that are irrevocable. What you've done today flits somewhere in between the two. You can issue a public apology and unqualified retraction and I _may_ let sleeping dogs lie. If you cannot or do not, then we enter solely into irrevocable territory and you will never recover from the application of my insurance policy."

I lean my forehead against the cool glass and sigh the sigh of a pensioner.

My ears aren't overlarge. They're perfect.

"Elena, will you _ever_ accept that what you did to me, to Matthew, to all the others… was wrong? Do you _ever_ lay awake at night and think of the lives you ruined, the childhoods you stole? Or do you honestly and truly believe that the incomprehensible consent of a broken child is justification for your criminal predilections? Is it truly beyond you to look at things through objective eyes and see yourself for the predatory beast that you are? My mother and father trusted you, Matthew's mother and father trusted you, and you betrayed that trust in the most disgusting manner known to fucking man. And your response to being challenged about thatis to talk shit about wars and actions… because you're too fucking cowardly to look at yourself in the mirror and see the truth. You're a monster, Elena. You're a fucking monster and I am going to do whatever it takes to see you caged like the animal you are."

I can see her bulging eyes, pulsating lips and hardening jaw.

I can see it in my mind's eye, the one I can't turn off. No matter how hard I try.

"You never complained," she seethes, "You never said no. You were legally a child, yes, but you were a man in all things that mattered. I taught you the discipline that is the cornerstone to your success. I whipped you into shape and now that you're all grown up and inching towards the Forbes rich list, you think you're too fucking good for me. But it doesn't work like that, boy, life doesn't work like that. I have worked hard for everything I have; this unfounded and unsubstantiated bullshit is going to bleed me dry. I will not allow that to happen, I will defend what is mine with everything I have and I have a hell of a lot more up my sleeve than your simple mind can ever contemplate."

My reflection rolls his eyes at me.

Same fucking record.

Over and over again.

"Do you ever sing a new tune, Elena? Or do you spout the same bullshit on a daily basis and hope for a different outcome? Isn't that the definition of insanity? Are all you filthy fucking pedos insane, completely fucked-up in the head? Perhaps you and McCallum can use that as a defense strategy… or, alternatively, you can ply the jury with your trademark pity party. Tell them all about your trials and tribulations as a washed-up tramp, stuck in a loveless marriage, contemplating the misery of your middle-aged plight. There could be a couple of spinsters like you on there, you never know your luck. Some fucking hag might look at you and see a bit of herself in your soulless fucking eyes. Then, after, maybe you can have coffee and discuss your favorite brand of dildos and all the different ways in which you can go _fuck yourself."_

This time, her silence is absolute.

My reflection winks back at me.

"Little boy," she whispers, with ice imbued in every shattering syllable, "You seem to think you have all the answers, so let me ask you a little question that you may not have been expecting. It's a special kind of question, the kind of one I would only ask of my most prized pupil. Do you remember your final year in The Classroom? When I told you that you were ready to move up a grade, that you were such an outstanding student that you ought to be studying well above your age bracket? You were so excited, I remember how rosy those little cheeks of yours glowed. You were so _proud._ But you were naïve. You were green, and you were easy to sculpt and mold to my liking. It was almost too easy, but then again, you were and are nowhere near as smart as you think you are."

My reflection pales instinctively.

Whatever this is, it's bad.

It's extremely fucking bad.

"So, my little teacher's pet, it's time for a pop quiz. In The Classroom, there were four walls, as standard. Many pleasurable and punitive objects hung from those walls and many secrets were witnessed by those walls. When you graduated from sub to Dom, you asked me to help you with your first submissive. It was to be a once-off, and then you'd be back on bended knee in front of me where you belonged. It was something you needed to get out of your system, you were nineteen years old. We broke her in together, remember? It was such a special moment. Until, of course, you went too far… you went far too far… and that girl lost her mind in a way I have never seen before. You remember her, baby? The lovely Samantha? The beautiful brunette that you marked with permanence, abused with audacity and reduced to a mentally quivering heap of safeword spouting misery? Do you remember her now? She screamed and screamed until I came running back downstairs, to see you with that look in your eyes and that whip in your hands. I'd only left you alone for forty-three minutes and in that time, you destroyed that girl. Of course, money talks, and I paid for her treatment and her silence and we waved her off as a lesson well learned. No proof, no problem."

Vomit coats my mouth.

Panic sears my heart.

Putrid regret courses through my veins. I think of Samantha every night, I regret it every night.

My reflection stiffens and crumples as one.

No one could know about that, her NDA was absolute, no one would believe Elena…

Hyperventilation is near.

Her sneering smile wriggles into my ear like an STD lost in transit. Her words are alight with malice.

"Except, there _is_ proof, little boy. There's a tape."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

_Except, there is proof, little boy. There's a tape._

Her words are ringing around and around my head and I'm waiting for the projectile vomit to splatter my floor-to-wall windows. I'm waiting for the terror I felt as a fifteen-year-old in a fifty-year-olds position to engulf me. But neither happen, neither come. My world doesn't combust, my heart doesn't forget to beat, and my lungs are brimming with oxygen. My reflection smiles back at me, and it tells me what to do.

"And what are you going to do with that tape, Elena? Condemn yourself with it, provide the noose for your own neck? You're intelligent enough to know that footage will never see the light of day in court, so you're what? Planning to have it leaked and sit back as it goes viral? See, that still represents a problem for you because not only will you _still_ be condemning yourself… but I'm pretty sure that filming a minor in a state of undress and indecency is a felony. Just as much as coercing a minor into a state of undress and indecency is a felony. So, either way, you're still holding up a big neon fucking sign that says _I'm Elena Lincoln and I'm a raging pedo."_

A shocked silence spirals down the line.

"Be that as it may, you cocky little _shit,_ how do you think that footage is going to make you look in your boardroom, hmm? How do you think it's going to-"

My reflection rolls its eyes.

"I don't give a flying fuck how it makes me look in my boardroom, Elena. I'm past caring. Do you understand? I _do not care_ what my employees or investors think of me. I _do not care_ what my milkman and paperboy think of me. I _do not care_ what the media and the public think of me. I care what _I_ think of me, I care what my family thinks of me and I care what all your other victims think of me. You don't hold the power anymore, and that's why you're so livid, that's why you're making this mistake. Do you think this call isn't being recorded? I record all my calls. And I will be forwarding said recording straight to the DA's office. So, congratulations, you've just hammered another nail into your own coffin."

I can hear her eyes bulging in her toad-like face.

I can hear her decrepit lips, rogue with artifice, parting with a slick squelch.

I can hear her walls of offense crumbling down around her quaffed hair.

"Christian, please… you cannot do this to me. I thought you loved me, I thought you knew that I loved you. You can still make this right. You can go to the press and say that the stress of running GEH just got you, made you think all sorts of insane things… that you're getting treatment for your delusional beliefs. You can still stop this in its tracks and you and I won't have to wound each other like this… don't you want that?"

My reflection raises its brows and shakes its head.

"If you call again, if you contact me in any manner again, I will seek legal advice on securing a restraining order against you. This is your first and final warning. The next time you see or hear from me, your life as you know it will be on the line in a courtroom of the state's choosing. Until then, goodbye Elena."

" _Christian,_ you-"

I hang up. The sharp sound of the line disconnecting is like Mozart in private concert. Before I can overthink it, I download the file from my carrier's recording service and attach it to an email to Miss Steele, explaining the circumstances of the call with as much brevity as possible. She's going to have questions about the nature of the footage Elena threatened me with, but I'm just going to have to grow a pair and tell her. It won't be pleasant, and it won't be easy, but… fuck it. Fuck it all. I've come this far and oddly, the more the witch tries to thwart me, the more determined I become to see her hang.

Not literally, of course.

More's the fucking pity.

I cross the room and throw myself on the sofa, one arm behind my head, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Samantha's face slithers into my mind and the familiar and sickening guilt snakes in after it. Looking back, Elena's intention was obvious, so fucking obvious. But in the moment, Samantha was a treat tastier than a fucking dominos on steroids. My very own sub, someone to swallow the pain I was used to accepting, to deserving. I didn't have a fucking clue what I was doing, not a singular notion of correct conduct did I possess. And she _knew_ it and she set me up like the patsy I was. I couldn't stop, no matter how much I knew I should, I just couldn't. That whip was like a paintbrush in my hands and her body was my canvas.

And I wanted to _mark_ my canvas.

Claim it as my own.

She safe worded after some serious blows, her stamina was impressive to the extreme. But by the time she did, I was in a state of sadistic euphoria that was beyond the reach of her pleading cries. It was like someone else was swinging that whip, it was like someone else was searing the leather into her soft, soft skin. I could see myself through another's eyes, watch my assault through an objective gaze. It was as close to an outer bodily experience as I've ever come, and I have zero fucking desire to repeat the incident. That's why I think of Samantha every day. She is my penance. She is the rod I crafted for my own back and I make sure I pay the price of my folly every single day.

But it will never be enough.

I will never forgive myself, not really.

How can I?

There is _one_ rule in our world. Well, there are many, but there is one _holy grail_ rule. And that is… when a safeword is uttered, it's a red light. It's a stop what you're fucking doing, it's a kill the engine, it's a cease and desist. It's as cardinal as the confessional box, as sacred as attorney-client privilege… and I flouted the seminal rule with an adolescent impunity. I scarred Samantha, physically and mentally. She was supposed to be my _coming of age_ and instead, she was my undoing. Dr Flynn has some weird idea that it wasn't my fault, that I was manipulated into a situation that was beyond my comprehension.

But… I've always been smarter than my years, always ahead of the curve.

And I know what I've done, and what I could have done.

And I can never change either piece of knowledge.

Ever.

I feel the temptation of the bottle call to me, but I resist. Now is not the time to be anything other than my sharpest sharp. I'm sure Miss Steele… Ana, will be calling in the morning and that conversation is going to be hard enough without a hangover to boot. Suddenly, fatigue grips me and my eyes droop of their own accord. I'm pulled into a fitful sleep with flashing images of Elena, Samantha, Ana and Matthew. They merge and split like a mutating cell, coming together to form the most terrifying fucking hybrid of good and evil.

An accurate representation of my life.

I awake with a start in the morning, the glaring sun rays magnified through my glass dome of a penthouse. I may as well have indulged in the Scotch because the pounding migraine lancing through my skull doesn't give a fuck that I was sensible. It's six AM, my inner alarm clock always blares at this time, and I lope off towards the shower. Today is the first day that I face daybreak with my private life splattered all over the streets of Seattle and the screens of the nation. I may have told Elena that I don't give a flying fuck about that fact, but I was lying through my perfectly white and straight teeth.

I do give a fuck.

I do give a flying fuck.

But I cannot and will not appear to give a fuck.

But I cannot and will not appear to give a flying fuck.

The water burns hot like the inner core of hell and I embrace the shit out of its scalding spray. Thirty minutes later and I am primed for the day in my best of best suits and my favorite shirt and tie. The tailored white shirt and the textured gray tie. They caress me like armor, and if ever there was a day that I needed some fucking armor, it is _today._ I have to march my ass into my own damned business and know that everyone from the mailboy to my VP knows exactly where my ass has been. So, the only way to march said ass with said ass-like connotations into said business, is to march it with a front.

With a swagger.

For the first time in my life, I'm going to have to wiggle my ass like I'm proud of it. Which, to be fair, I am. I've put in many, many hours in the gym for this ass and on a normal day, I wouldn't mind someone having a sneak peek. But today isn't a normal day and everyone and their dog is going to be looking for all the wrong reasons. I wonder briefly how Matthew is going to fare… will his patients be ok with the whistle-blower laying his hands on them? Will they be able to see past his past and look at his present? Or will they no longer see him as a respected doctor, and instead, cast subtle gazes of discontent upon him as he does his rounds… ask for another doctor behind his back?

Who knows.

Today will be telling.

By the time I slide into the back of the town car, my cell rings. Taylor discreetly slides up the divider and I once again, resolve to give the man a raise. Glancing at the caller ID, I close my eyes in preparation when I see Miss Steele's… Ana's, name. It's much better to bite the bullet than let the bullet bite you, and with that in mind, I pick up the call and prepare to let the pieces fall where they may. Her voice is professional and efficient, as always.

"Good morning, Christian. I hope I haven't caught you too early?"

I smile my first, and possibly last, smile of the day.

I've been up for two hours.

"No, Miss… Ana, I'm already on the way to the office."

"Good," she approves, "But I was wondering could you take a detour to my office, first? I've read your email and listened to the attached recording and there are some questions I need to ask you. I also need to run over some other matters with you."

I frown.

What other matters could she possibly have since yesterday?

"Other matters? What other matters are they?"

She hesitates, but briefly so, before regaining her composure.

"We have a proposed trial commencement date and I wanted to make sure it worked for you… it's better we discuss it in person. Can you make a quick trip downtown or shall I have my secretary call and schedule an appointment for another time?"

I think quickly.

I have a meeting, but I can push it.

And, shamefully or shamelessly, I see this as a way out.

As a way of putting off the inevitable for just a while longer.

"I can make the time, I will be with you in fifteen minutes."

Taylor makes the detour happen smoothly, and we arrive in thirteen minutes. The air is crisp as I step out and fasten my suit jacket. I don't give myself time to overthink, and I stride swiftly into the now familiar building and glide up the stairs to Ana's domain. Before, it was just a suspicion, but now I am quite sure that her half-dead secretary hates me. She frowns at me with the face of a constipated owl and reluctantly allows my passage into Ana's office, glaring at my back with geriatric disdain.

I've called her Bertha in my mind.

Big Bertha.

Somehow, for some reason… I want to offer Big Bertha a job. She'd probably guard my files better than King fucking Kong. I rap smartly on the office door and her voice floats through the thick wood. It seems surreal that me and Matthew spilled our guts on a national stage in this office mere hours ago, it bears no evidence of such, it's unremarkable to the extreme. She looks up and smiles over a teetering stack of files as I enter.

"Morning, take a seat. Would you like some coffee?"

Sitting where I am allocated, I shake my head.

I don't _do_ governmental coffee.

I like my coffee the way I like everything else.

Outrageously expensive and sensationally seductive.

"No, thank you, I'm fine."

She raises a brow.

"Our paltry beans not up to scratch?"

I smile my second, and possibly my last, smile of the day.

"Something like that, I have snobbish tendencies in some matters."

"Understandable. Ok, I know you probably have a full day planned so I'll be as brief as possible. I've tried to push this case as high and as fast up on the docket as I can. I have a preliminary start date for five weeks from now. I know that seems like a long time, and that you want to get started and finished as quickly as possible, but it's actually to our advantage. I need a lot more information from you and Matthew and I need to prepare you both for the stand. I also need to prepare any other victims that may come forward, so that five weeks is actually quite a narrow timeframe to get things done. So, I need you to be as available as you can possibly be for the foreseeable future… is that ok?"

I find my head bobbing up and down like a puppy in training.

"That's fine."

She nods approvingly.

"Good, now… lets move on to the call you received last night and the corresponding email you sent me. I am going to apply to the court for a restraining order against Mrs Lincoln for the duration of pre-trial and the trial itself. What she's done can be argued as being witness tampering and intimidation, not to mention straight-up blackmail. I'm also going to try and wrangle the conversation into discovery as being a partial admission of guilt, but I want to think on that for a while longer. The best evidence rule dictates that I may have to play the original recording for the jury, to provide the context for Mrs Lincoln's threat… and I don't want to provide any fodder for jury bias. Is that agreeable to you?"

I stare for a moment.

 _I don't want to provide any fodder for jury bias…_

That's what it all comes down to, isn't it? Persuading twelve people whom I have never met, to vindicate the stolen years of my adolescence and early adulthood. It's about manipulating these unknown people into seeing past any of my current flaws to see only my past abuse. I know people, reading them is the foundation upon which my flourishing fiefdom is built. And people like to think that they're doing the right thing, they like to believe that they have the moral high ground… that they're servants of their country, or god, dependant on their views. And if they see me, the victim turned abuser, through the lens of that call… their moral high ground takes a bit of a hammering.

Victims turned abusers can be interpreted in two manifestly different ways.

The predominately female viewpoint is; such a phenomenon is a natural and cyclical outcome of a litany of abuse. A victim cannot be held fully responsible for any reprehensible actions they commit, because, what chance did the poor creature have? Their souls were damaged by the horrors they suffered, it was only _natural_ that they didn't know right from wrong, strength from cowardice. Who could blame them in totality? Allowances must be made.

The predominately male viewpoint is; how could someone, knowing exactly how it feels to have wrongs committed against them, go out and do the same thing to someone else? If anything, having that special knowledge, they should _never_ be capable of repeating the horrors of the past. How could they sleep at night, knowing that they'd done to another what had been done to them? It was their duty to break the cycle of abuse, not continue it. How could they do it? Allowances must not be made.

Women tend to think in multicolour.

Men tend to think in black and white.

"That's fine," I hear myself say, "I understand."

She nods approvingly, and I am once again stricken by her professionalism that extends far beyond her years. She glances down at her stack of paperwork and gathers her thoughts.

"Ok, now, yesterday's interview was a matter of removing Mrs Lincoln's threat from play, but it is not how I would have liked to handle things. Save for limited exposure, I would rather you not speak to anyone other than myself and your family about this case from hereon in? Oh, and Matthew of course. Is that alright?"

Finally.

Some good fucking news.

"I am more than alright on that front."

She smiles and nods.

"I thought as much. Now, I am waiting on a Judge to sign off on a warrant to search Mrs Lincoln's home. It shouldn't be an issue, especially now that I have the recording you emailed me. I need photographs of… The Classroom and under police escort, I hope to ascertain same without threats of interference from Mrs Lincoln. Of course, there is a very real threat that she has disassembled the room since the initiation of proceedings against her, or perhaps even long beforehand, but it's worth a shot. I know this will be very difficult for you, but once I have those photos, if they're possible… I need you to work through them with me and explain what each item of… erm, furniture was used for. Do you think you can do that? I will be asking the same of Matthew, if he is amenable."

I close my eyes.

 _The Classroom._

It never leaves me, but I never thought I'd have to see it again, even if in photographic form. I know if I ever lay eyes on evidence of that room, everything will come flooding back in HD clarity. But, what choice is there? If I can't sit and look at photos, identify what went on in each frame, then how can I stand up in a packed court and do it? I have no business bringing the case any further if I can't clear this hurdle and so once again, my head moves of its own volition.

"I can do that."

 _I fucking hope I can do that._

She looks relieved.

"Excellent, excellent… now, I don't know if there is-"

Her phone cuts her off and she shoots me an apologetic glance, I return it with a permissive wave of my hand. I could do with a break in proceedings and I'll take it in whatever form it comes. I breathe deeply, subtly, and battle to retain my composure. She hasn't asked me to explain in detail about Samantha and I wonder is it an oversight on her part, or an attempt at compassion. As I look at her and her accolades that adorn the walls… I know it's not an oversight.

I am flooded with gratitude.

She's reading between the lines rather than forcing me to draw them.

It doesn't take a genius to listen to that call and paint a vivid picture.

But still… I'm grateful.

Her eyes widen as she listens to whoever is on the other end of the line. She hums and haws in various places and I find myself staring quite audaciously at her. She is at ease with herself, that much is obvious. She doesn't twitch, doesn't fidget and doesn't slouch. She's a woman who knows she belongs where she rules, and I feel the familiar relief that she was the ADA appointed to my case. Carrick… he's not so sure, but he'll come around.

I hope.

She hangs up and a look of unmistakable victory flits across her face.

I raise a brow.

"Good news?"

She nods and them seems to chastise herself.

"Well, yes… and no. It's good and bad news, I suppose. Three more of Mrs Lincoln's victims have come forward, Christian. The oldest is thirty-three. Her abuse has spanned the decades. Their preliminary statements match yours and Matthew's to a T, down to the intricate details of your accounts that were never publicized. Christian… this strengthens your case ten-fold. Proving a pattern of abuse is half the battle and we're winning and winning heavily on that front."

I gape at her.

 _Thirty-three…_

I'm twenty-four.

This person is nine years older than me. Did his abuse start when he was fifteen, too? How old was _she_ when she made her move on him? Was he her first? A million questions batter me as I sit there like a comatose squid. _She really was a monster… a fucking monster of the night._ How many others were there? With me and Matthew and now these other three… that made at least five. Five lives ruined, five childhoods snatched, five adulthoods marred past the point of complete redemption.

A burning hatred bubbles in me.

 _How fucking dare she?_

"I want her to go down for this, Ana," I spit, and surprise colors her face at my sudden and intense venom, "I don't want any technicality getting that bitch off the hook. I am at your disposal in any and all matters. There is no question that is off limits, there is no recounting that is too difficult. I will do whatever it takes, no matter how uncomfortable or damaging. I need you to understand that, here and now, I need you to promise me you will _not_ hold back."

She ponders for the briefest of moments.

"You have my word, Christian, I will not hold back."

She means it.

I can tell, she really means it.

"Thank you," I murmur, "Now, is there anything else to be discussed or decided today? It's just that I do have a meeting to reconvene and if there's nothing else…"

She closes her eyes for a nanosecond.

"Well, to be frank, I wasn't going to ask you this today but given that your preference is a no holds barred approach… I was wondering if you would be up to crafting a Victim Impact Statement. Do you know what that is?"

I frown.

"Isn't that some kind of sob story written by a victim to try and convince a jury to find in their favour, recounting the reason for the trial in the first place? How it's impacted their lives to date and likely will in the future?

Her smile is softer than the usual professional offering.

"You are correct for the most part, save for the _sob story_ element. A VIS is basically the victim's opportunity to speak directly to the jury, without the pressure of being on the stand, to explain exactly how the offenses against them have changed the course of their lives. They are not always allowed, it varies from case to case and judge to judge… but we dare not to underestimate their value. I have known cases to be swung at the very last minute on the back of a well-written and cohesive VIS. I'm not saying it's a must, I'm saying it's… advisable. It needs to be included in discovery, so I would need it sooner rather than later. Is that something you think you could do?"

A big part of being the success that I am comes from one simple fact.

I may talk a big game, but I _always_ follow through.

I've just told this woman that I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

And this… this _VIS_ is the follow through.

No one said it would be palatable.

I nod with gritted teeth.

"It is. I can have it on your desk before the close of business today."

"There's no need for quite that much of a-"

We are interrupted. It's Big Bertha and she's not a happy fucking camper. Her wildly large bosom seems to strain against her anguished blouse in ire as she thrusts the door open after a perfunctory knock. The faintest flash of annoyance crosses Ana's face as she looks up at the disturbance with a questioning expression.

"Is everything ok, Debbie?"

 _Debbie?_

No fucking way.

She's Big Bertha… and I like her. I'm fucking terrified of her in a way that I am _not_ afraid to admit, but I like her. I feel like she'd complement Andrea very well… if Andrea would consent to it, which I doubt she would. People think that my PA lives to hop, skip and jump at my word… truth is, I'd be up shit creek without a paddle if not for Andrea. She rules my appointment book with an iron fist and that is no easy task.

I wonder idly if Ana would be pissed if I made a move for Big Bertha?

I table the notion as her clipped and slightly masculine voice storms the room.

"Miss Steele, I am very sorry for the intrusion and were it not for the… pressing circumstances involved, I would turn him away. But… there's a someone out here, says he's involved in the…" she glances at me with an almost motherly concern, wrapped up in a blanket of aggression, "In your current case. He says that he either talks directly to you, right now, or he's gone, and he won't be coming back. He says you have five minutes or he's hightailing it out of here. What should I tell him?"

Ana's deep-set eyes narrow.

I can see her brain running at a hundred miles an hour.

I wait for yet another tsunami of fucking _emotion_ to crush me. But it doesn't. I subsist in a state of almost serene indifference. So there's another man, another notch on her bedpost… I am no longer surprised. I no longer believe myself special, I know better now. I know that for every man that comes forward, there's another that never will. Elena was too practiced, too cunning, too _efficient…_ to have started with me. Matthew is living proof of that, but I very much doubt she started with him either, if the thirty-three-year-old victim is to be believed.

Which he is.

Who the fuck would make shit like this up?

I feel her eyes swivel to mine and they bleed with an unspoken request for permission.

I nod without hesitation.

Bring him in… the more the fucking merrier at this stage.

We could form a group or a band.

 _The Lincoln Boys._

A shudder sprinkles its way down my spine. My thoughts are getting darker by the day and snarkier by the hour. I've been neglecting Dr Flynn. I should probably drag my ass to his office some time this week, so he can regale me with how _marvellous_ his idea of unleashing this can of worms was. How much _lighter_ I must be feeling with it all out in the open…

He'd be wrong.

I don't really feel lighter.

I don't feel anything.

"Bring him in, Debbie. Thank you."

Big Bertha nods and withdraws and I note her absence with acuity. The room is warmer with her in it. I need to tell Flynn about my burgeoning obsession with Big Bertha… we can probably add _mommy issues_ to my list of problems.

Oh, wait.

That's already on my list.

Right at the top.

Labelled; _Crack Whore._

Today. I need to see Flynn today.

There's silence as we wait. She looks at me and I do not return the glance. I do not want to be studied right now, to be analyzed. I just want to get this over and done with, so I can go back to the office and face the music. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. There's muffled sounds outside the door, almost like a muted argument.

Big Bertha surely isn't accosting an Elena Lincoln victim?

The door suddenly swings open. Big Bertha stands to the side with a frown marring her face. I narrow my eyes, she disapproves of something… of what, I don't know. The air suddenly feels off, it grows cold. Ana's face is impassive as she stares steadily at the scene.

It doesn't take long before it explodes like a bomb in front of us.

I spring to my feet.

I don't know what this is… what this means…

Ana is confused, bewildered. She glances between me and the entrant with trepidation creeping into her eyes. She holds up a hand that presumably prevents a lurking Big Bertha from calling in reinforcements. I tune them both out as those familiar green eyes fixate upon my face and the memories they engender sweep through me like a blizzard of harshest snow.

It's been years.

Years and years.

I open my mouth, I need to assess the situation, see what it _means…_ but he beats me to it. But he doesn't speak to me, instead, he turns his attention to a calmly confused Ana and utters the words that somehow, I just _know_ cost him everything he has and everything he will ever have.

"Miss Steele, isn't it? You're the ADA in charge of this case?"

She nods warily, giving nothing away.

"My name is Mr Eric Lincoln and I'm here to do what I should have done many years ago."

He throws his head in my direction, but his eyes never leave Ana's.

"I want to testify on behalf of Christian Grey. My ex-wife molested and abused him for many years, alongside many other boys, and I have the evidence that proves it."

My mouth swings open like a leaden trap door.

 _Well slap my ass and call me Sally._

…

TBC

….


	12. Chapter 12

**_My name is Mr Eric Lincoln, and I'm here to do what I should have done many years ago…_**

Ana's surprise lasts only for a nanosecond, before the ADA in her flourishes. She casts me a questioning look, she's asking me if I want this… if I can take this. Unlike her, my surprise is still kicking my ass. My eyes are on Eric, Linc, and all the memories that go with him. The image of Elena's bloodied and bruised face at this man's hands swims in my mind, but the usual wave of anger doesn't come along with it. He glances at me furtively and I see it, clear as day. Why he's here, why he's doing this.

Guilt.

Acidic, acerbic guilt.

He knew all along what Elena was, what she did.

To me, to Matthew, to the others.

And he did nothing.

He did _nothing._

A tongue of rage licks me and I'm shocked by it. I'd always understood Linc's loathing of me, because I'd always seen myself as the man who'd been bedding his wife behind his back. But I know better now, I know that I wasn't a man at all, I was a boy and I was one of many. And he knew about it. He went about his business, he went about his days, in the full knowledge that his wife was molesting, beating and brainwashing vulnerable teenage boys.

In their home.

In their marital fucking home.

I'm on my feet before I know it, even if I wanted to stop myself, I couldn't. Ana stands apprehensively, but Linc doesn't move as I approach. His eyes widen slightly and a droplet of sweat peeks out from under his receding hairline, but he doesn't move. We're nearly nose-to-nose and his scent is the same, all these years later. Woody, but clean. He's aged, badly, and the lines that are etched into his face are like dendrochronological rings in a tree, each one representative of the truth he never spoke, the lives he didn't have the balls to save.

My voice is not one that I recognize.

"You knew? You knew all along… what she was… what she did?"

He licks his lips, looks to the side, finds Ana staring at him with impassive eyes and swallows. He doesn't need to answer me, he doesn't need to tell me the truth I already know. He knew what she was doing to me, he knew what she had done and would do to Matthew and the others. A question sears into my brain, a continuity error, a flaw in the equation. It doesn't make sense, but then again, I only ever had her word for it.

"If you knew… why did you beat her to a pulp when you _supposedly_ found out?"

He looks at me with a flash of bewilderment, before recognizing an Elena dupe.

"Is that what she told you?" he mumbles, shamefacedly, "That I lost control when I found out about you two?" He shakes his head, looks down at the floor and whispers something under his breath before finding my glacial gaze again. "That's not why I lost it, that's not what made me lose control. I knew long before you… what she was, what she was all about. She said it was my fault, I have… performance issues and our life in that regard was non-existent. She said her needs had to be met outside of the marriage or she was going to leave me, and I was so in love with her I couldn't bear the thoughts of her walking out on me. At first, I didn't know it was… _boys…_ and I didn't know about all… the rest of it…"

He swallows and behind his head I see Ana pale half a shade.

"But then I did, and I convinced myself that her lies were truths. That she was helping… boys like you, broken boys. That she was providing them with the guidance they needed, that they were practically legal anyhow and that, without her, they like me… would crumble. She said they meant nothing to her, the ones before you and the ones after you. That they were just a means to an end, a way to sustain our marriage and public perception."

My fists are begging me.

They're twitching with need, with primal desire.

They want to slam into this _creature's_ face, they want to open wide and wrap themselves around his good-for-nothing neck, see his cowardly eyes bulge as his lungs scream for oxygen. Every lash of the whip, every fuck whether it was giving or taking, every mental anguish… he could have prevented it, he could have prevented all of it. But his sham of a _marriage_ was too important to him to do that, his precious _image_ was more important than speaking up about the criminal acts that took place through the decades under his own fucking roof.

My breakfast churns in my stomach.

It's in danger of upending all over Ana's pristine carpet.

"But that wasn't the case with you," he continues in a pained, shamed whisper. "You were different, Christian. You were… with her, for much longer than the others. I questioned it, I didn't understand it. She always had a very definitive timeframe and it never varied. I kept asking her and she kept blowing me off with vague answers and even vaguer excuses, until one night, I'd had enough. I wanted to know why you were still around, especially with the danger her association with your parents posed. We fought and fought, she refused to give me an answer that made any sense until finally, she just… blurted it out."

Ana is by my side.

I blink.

How did she get there?

But my eyes are all for him, my ears, they're all for him.

"She said she loved you," he says softly, disgust shimmering in his eyes. "She said that you were different to all the others, and that's why she kept you around. She said she couldn't let you go, that there was a special… _connection_ between you two that she'd never had with another boy. That you were born to be in the… the lifestyle she loved so much. She said that you were everything I wasn't, you were intelligent, beautiful and…"

He grimaces in disgust as my entire world view shatters into a million pieces.

"Amazing in the sack."

Ana winces in disgust beside me.

But that last crumb of information doesn't surprise me. Elena was always primal, in all things. But her words of long ago are ringing my ears, contradicting everything Linc has just said. _Love is for fools, Christian._ She always said that, over and over again. She conditioned me to think the same. The concept of love evades me, eludes me. I love my parents and my siblings and that's about it. Extra-familial love is an odd concept to me, because she taught me so. But all along, _she_ was in love with _me?_

That shit doesn't make sense.

But then I think about her in today's light, ignoring Linc's searching gaze, I think about her inability to let go, her steadfast determination to make me see our torrid relationship through the rose-tinted lenses she's still wearing. Why would she care that much, to do so much? Even before I started this case, she couldn't let sleeping dogs lay. She hounded me, pestered me, damn near stalked me. If I were just another notch on her bedpost, why would she do that?

Up till now, I've always been on the fringe of nausea.

Right now, however, it's pressing at my lips, desperate to escape.

I swallow it down.

There can be no show of weakness in front of this cowardly bastard.

"So you were jealous?" I ask quietly, "Of the _child_ that captured Mrs Pedo's heart?"

To his fractional credit, he doesn't try and deny it.

"Yes, I was. You were her everything, in some sick and twisted way, I think she honestly thought you two had something that could be built upon, something that could some day be shown in public. Elena doesn't understand love, she doesn't understand anything so pure. She thinks she does, but she really has no idea. You were her pride and her joy in a perverse, possessive sense. But she didn't love you, she's not capable. But when I heard the words, when she said that you were everything she'd ever been looking for… yes, I lost it. I'm not proud of it, but I lost it. You were literally like the boy next door, a child I'd watched grow into a teenager two foot taller than I was. I couldn't handle it and… I did what I did."

He takes a breath.

"Back then, I thought it was because I was a scorned husband, traded in for a disgustingly younger model. But now… I know it was the guilt. It had been eating me for years, and I kept shoving it deeper and deeper down inside me. I was madly in love with Elena, a weak man drawn to her power, her ability to control everything and everyone. I thought if… if none of you were complaining, if none of you were trying to go to the police or your parents… you must've been happy."

Self-loathing, self-castigation and self-disgust colors his face.

"When I snapped, it was under the realization that I would never be to her what you were _and_ the realization that I'd spent years aiding and abetting a filthy pedophile… because I was afraid to lose her, or be exposed for what we were to the public..."

He shudders and forces himself to look me squarely in the eye.

There's something else he wants to say, something he's working up to. But I'm numb. I'm unfeeling. This man sat down with my parents, played golf with my father, all the while knowing what his wife was doing to me behind closed doors. All the while _condoning_ what his wife was doing to me behind closed doors. And all so he could play happy fucking families with the depraved bitch, all so he could go to sleep next to her in a flaccid bed of emasculation.

Jesus.

Christ.

"I have evidence," he continues in a muted voice of contempt. "I have footage, documentation… I have enough cold, hard facts against her to push your case through the courts faster than an Olympian on steroids. I know it's too little, too late… but it's the only thing I can offer… it's the only thing I can do. She has no idea I have any of this, I had someone hack the cameras she put in that… that _room…_ everything she thinks she alone possesses, I possess, too. All the texts and emails she ever exchanged with any of you, I have records of, all the phone calls between she and any of you, I have records of. It's basically a storybook, a filthy, disgusting storybook… of the lives and lies of Elena Lincoln."

He suddenly roots around in his pockets and withdraws a thick USB key.

"It's all on here, everything you could possibly need to nail the bitch."

He gazes at me with the beseeching gaze of a broken man.

"Please, will you take it?"

Ana stares at the USB and I know her brain is steaming with admissibility concerns. But mine is oddly blank, drenched in the weirdest oasis of calm. It's as if the pieces of the puzzle I never knew existed had been missing for all these years, and now that I'm putting it together, I'm putting myself back together, too. The USB is an inch away from my nose, damning evidence dancing in its prong. Linc's plea swirls around and around in my brain and I analyze it like I would any business proposition, the pros and the cons, the ups and the downs. Coming to a decision, I decide to execute the agreement.

"I can't take it right now… not until I make myself clear…"

His nose crunches under my fist, blood spurts hot and fast, and he crumples to my feet. Stooping down, admiring Ana's complete lack of screeching, or any reaction whatsoever, I pluck the USB key from his grasp and wipe my fist on his splattered white shirt, before standing and gazing down at the pathetic creature at my feet.

"Now I can take it."

….

A/N: Next up, a few bits and pieces to wrap up and then we're heading to trial! Also, of all my stories, this is going to be one of the longer ones. I need the length to properly work the trial and bring A and C together, so please bear with!

Inks x

…


	13. Chapter 13

I wonder what she's thinking.

I wonder what she's thinking, and I wonder what my family are thinking. I had a sit down with Grace and Carrick last night, the minutes of which have surely been fed to Mia and Elliot by now, and I wonder at what's going through their minds. I've seen my mother mad on several occasions, but nothing compares to what I saw last night. It took every ounce of reasoning that my father possesses to prevent her from storming around to Eric Lincoln's house and ripping him limb from limb. After some tears and a hug that I only allowed in the circumstances, she took a sleeping pill and retired to bed.

Over some Armagnac, Carrick revealed to me a troubling truth.

Guilt.

Grace feels guilty, every morning, noon and night she is consumed with maternal guilt. That and that alone has caused me more rage and regret than anything Elena could ever have foisted upon me. Grace Trevelyan-Grey saved my life, in more ways than one. I made it so that she could never have known what went on between me and her trusted friend. I skirted and skulked around her questions and queries, I flat out lied when I had to, all to protect that love I thought I shared with that… woman.

If anyone should be feeling guilty, it should be me.

I said as much to Carrick.

I haven't received a paternal lecture of such mammoth scale in a long, long time.

In the end, I agreed that I had nothing to feel guilty about and that my mother would work through things in her own time, at her own pace, and that we'd just have to sit back and allow that to happen without running interference. But that was another lie in my long list of transgressions. I was determined for Elena to pay before I realized that my mother lies awake at night and wonders how she could have failed me so. Now… now I'm hellbent on seeing her suffer to the fullest capacity of human misery.

I'll move heaven and earth to make that happen.

GEH doesn't even matter to me now.

Nothing matters, nothing registers… but the need for justice.

Or revenge, depending on which way you slice it.

Ana flips through a daunting stack of transcripted telephonic conversations that her secretary stripped from Eric's USB. It's been a week, it's been the longest week of my life and she's just about done with assessing the evidence. There's an admissibility concern and it's a fucking big one. By doing nothing, by allowing what he allowed, Eric himself is liable for criminal charges pertaining to the sexual abuse of a minor. Furthermore, the vast majority of what he taped… took place in their family and marital home.

Our first and firm hurdle.

I've been informed that there's a _reasonable expectation of privacy_ in the martial home and recordings, unknowing and unapproved, made in such an environment are generally rejected by the courts. Ana says that there is a discretionary factor attaching to the trial judge though, that he/she can decide to weigh the nature of the crimes recorded against the sanctity of the family home and made a determination on admissibility. She thinks that we can overcome the reasonable expectation of privacy hurdle by holding up the heinous nature of the crimes captured.

But then, we move onto the _next_ problem.

Spousal privilege.

Although Eric is still, apparently, willing and eager to testify against his wife in a court of law, Ana warns that such willingness often dissipates in the cold light of day. Elena is, despite her many flaws, a force to be reckoned with and her husband has always been a weak-willed man. If she digs her claws into him and he changes his mind, recants his testimony, he cannot be forced to testify against her. That makes my stomach churn. It makes me prickle with unease. If anyone is susceptible to laying down and having Elena trample all over them in her too-high stilettos, it's Eric Lincoln. And I have no recourse if that happens, I have no return to sender.

Spousal fucking privilege.

But Ana, bright and bulletproof Ana, has a back-up plan to that eventuality, too.

Estrangement.

Specifically, the argument of estrangement.

Eric and Elena are still legally married, she still bears his surname, but they have not lived as husband and wife in many, many years. They are, for all intents and purposes, living a marriage of stale habituality and convenience. Ana thinks that, if push comes to shove, she can successfully argue that the defense of spousal privilege shouldn't apply to two people who are about as much a husband and wife duo as me and fucking Taylor.

Which leaves us with the third and final problem.

Evidence authenticity/integrity and chain of custody.

Ana soberly informs me that Elena's lawyer, the smarmy McCallum, is going to have a field day with the authenticity and chain of custody factors. He's going to assert that Eric is a lover scorned, that he manipulated the footage he offers to suit his own vindictive vendetta. That Elena and I shared a consensual and adult relationship and the footage Eric wishes to contribute, has been doctored to make me look like an adolescent, when in actuality, I was a fully-fledged adult. Failing that, he'll argue that there's a degree of collusion between Ana's office and Mr Eric Lincoln.

 _Why, Mr Lincoln, wasn't the footage handed over to the police?_

 _Why, Mr Lincoln, wasn't the footage handed over to the police years ago?_

Failing that, he'll go on a different offensive strike.

 _Why, Mr Lincoln, didn't you do anything about the alleged criminal activities in your home at the time you became aware of them?_

 _Why, Mr Lincoln, did you wait until now… until the trial involving the man you've envied since a boy, did you wait to come forward with your supposed damning and incontrovertible evidence? Is it because you wish to stick the knife even further into your ex-wife, the very same ex-wife you beat to a bloody pulp, upon supposedly discovering her relationship with the plaintiff?_

My head spins as Ana's hypothetical questions swim violently within it.

Her voice, informing me of things I don't care to understand, storms my mind… all the possible problems we face, stemming from Eric's USB…

 _Best evidence rule…_

 _Designed to inflame the passions of the jury…_

 _Unduly prejudicial…_

 _Media circus… request for trial relocation…_

 _Dated and archaic forage, no corroborating and independently supporting testimony…_

Her words of the past screech to a halt as suddenly, her words of the present spill from her mouth.

"Christian? Are you still with me?"

Shit.

Was she talking?

I blink and focus in upon her.

"Hmm?"

Her smile is a little too understanding for my liking, I brush an imaginary piece of lint from my pants to cover my discomfort.

"I was asking if you were still ok with not delaying the trial? Given the time it would take to locate all the boys on the… footage, a request for a delayed start date would most probably be approved… giving us the chance to track down and-"

"No," I snap, without meaning to. "No delays. I want to get this ball rolling as quickly as possible, not stop it. You have me and you have Matthew. If the people on that tape have not come forward by now, it's because they don't want to come forward and if they've not been found my now, it's because they don't want to be found. We have to respect that, their boundaries. We have to… it's their decision, their call. You have me and Matthew and that'll… that'll just have to be enough."

She nods slowly, clearly not happy with my decision.

But accepting it.

"Ok," she accedes in that efficient way of hers, "No delays. But… I need you to understand something, Christian. And I don't mean to sound indelicate or cold, but this is the only matter that I'll be deferring to you on. Trial strategy for this kind of case is brutal and I need to make those tough decisions on their merit, to the exclusion of any feelings attaching to them. I need you to be prepared for that. Ok?"

I look at her and I realize something.

This woman… she could be making a killing in a corporate law firm. Big law. Not small town, small time ADA bullshit. I glance around her desk curiously, for the first time, and there are no personal photos, no knick-knacks. Nothing. No personal touches whatsoever. She stares back at me evenly and it occurs to me, she's my female counterpart.

She gets shit done.

She doesn't take no for an answer.

She is a force in her field.

But why isn't she making the big money, negotiating the big deals? It makes no sense. It makes no sense for someone of her intellect and tenacity to chain themselves to a government salary, to working for the man. My brow furrows and I realize that she's still waiting for an answer, but what she gets instead, is a question.

"Why do you work here, Ana?"

She blinks.

But recovers with her unbroken pace.

"Can you elaborate on that question?"

"Here, in this place. On this kind of money. You could be in a large and leading corporate firm, making triple your salary with double your autonomy. But you're here, on a civil servant's salary and justifying your every waking move to your boss and the public. Why?"

It's an audacious question.

But I find I don't care.

I am suddenly and irrevocably intrigued by her, by her story.

And I have to know.

I just… I have to.

"That's an interesting question," she says slowly, arching a brow. "I'll answer it on the sole proviso that you answer my original question and we move along with bringing this case to trial?"

There's a hint of reprimand in her tone.

But I find I still don't care and I nod my agreement.

"I work here because the calling of corporate law never appealed to me. My father was a corporate lawyer and the lifestyle he led was not one which I aspired to. I could be making a lot more money in the private sector, that's true. But I prefer to make my bank in what I see in the mirror every morning and every night. For those reasons, I work here and will continue to work here until it no longer appeals to or satisfies me."

A small smile pulls at her lips.

"Does that answer your question?"

I digest her minute life story with one bite, nodding slowly.

"I suppose it does, yes."

"And you understand that I will not be deferring to you on trial strategy?"

I don't know why, but her subtle power play is suddenly humorous to me.

"What if I disagree vehemently with a decision you may wish to make?"

She senses the amusement in my tone and takes her time in answering.

"Then I will vehemently endeavour to illuminate you to the fact that, while you may be the hot-shot business man, within these four walls, I am the hot-shot… in all things. Law is to me as commerce is to you, and we should, in the interests of efficiency… respect each other's area of expertise."

Fair point, well made, Miss Steele.

I incline my head in a slightly exaggerated show of deference.

"I will endeavour the color within the lines, Ana."

She senses my tongue-in-cheek attitude and shoots me a menacing look.

"I'm sure that if you stray outside the lines, I am more than capable of bringing you back to base."

She stands abruptly as I'm contemplating any possible double meaning to her words, and rounds her desk to perch on its side. I am looking up at her now to maintain eye contact and I'd bet my bottom dollar that's what she wants, to reassert her… what was it? _Area of expertise._

"Christian, may I be blunt?"

Oh, now she's asking for permission?

I wave a barely concealed hand of sarcasm.

"Far be it for me to stall the wheels of justice, Miss Steele."

She shoots me a withering look.

"Ana."

Of course, how could I forget?

"Ana."

"Right, well, to be frank Christian… this case starts tomorrow morning and it's going to be brutal, in every conceivable sense of the word. Your private life is going to become a matter of public record and you're going to be baited and provoked at every single twist and turn. This is an expedited case and I know we've done some cross-examination prep, but not enough as far as I'm concerned. McCallum isn't the best of the best for no reason. He's slimy, underhanded and devious… and he's one of the best litigators I have ever seen. Going up against him is going to push me to the pin of my collar, but I believe that I can match him. I have the better case to try before a jury, he has the better case to try before a judge… the jury… Christian, you have to make the jury like you…"

She takes a deep breath.

"You know the jury composition, it's the best we could have hoped for. Eight women, four men. Seven of those eight women are mothers, five of them to boys. Those women are our targets of choice. It sounds clinical and cynical, and maybe it is, but we need those women to look at you and Elena and see their sons in your stead. We need to stir up their passions without appearing to. We need them to hate Elena, to want to punish her. To do that, you _cannot_ lose control. As far as victims go, you and Matthew are the crème de la crème. A successful doctor and entrepreneur… born from the ashes of the suffering you both endured? That's rare. And that's how we need them to see you both. As survivors seeking justice. That's why, no matter what McCallum may say or do, you _have_ to remain cool and calm. Do you understand?"

I feel my brows raise.

Does she see the monster within?

Does she look at me, and see so clearly through me, so as to know what I am?

The thought ices me from the inside out.

"He will try and provoke you into an outburst," she continues, misinterpreting my silence for misunderstanding. "You and Matthew both. He'll try and trick you into pitting the jury against you. Juries don't like to feel like they're being manipulated, and any excessive emotive outbursts are generally met with scepticism, particularly from the mouths of accomplished testifiers. You need to answer his questions as shortly as possible. Yes and no where possible and if you don't understand, say you don't understand. I will be limiting McCallum's exposure to you as much as possible, but there are some things and questions I cannot prevent, and I know we've been over them, but you need to be prepared. Ok?"

I thaw a little and nod.

"Ok."

She regards me shrewdly and I don't like it, looking over her head to break the spell.

"Ok then," she says quietly, "Tomorrow will mainly be about seating the jury, swearing them in and depending on time constraints, opening statements. You will not have to speak tomorrow, but I need you to look as open and as warm as possible."

She glances at my suit, the one that could pay her month's rent and frowns.

"How would you feel about wearing no suit jacket?"

I'd rather extricate myself from my dick and leave it on the mantlepiece.

That's how fucking emasculating it would be to go to court _jacketless._

My sour look answers her question and she huffs a little, but counters.

"Can we lose the tie then, at least?"

My tie costs more than your car, woman.

But that would be a churlish point to note, and weirdly, I want to please her.

I nod my head.

I'll go sans cravat.

My cell shrills and my time is up, industry beckons. She shakes my hand, as she always does, and tells me to get a good night's sleep and to turn up to court thirty minutes early. The rest of the day is a write-off. I can't concentrate, I can't dominate. I am, to be frank, shitting myself. Since this ball started rolling, the trial itself was a hypothetical… way out there, kinda deal.

But now… it's a realistic… right here and right now, kinda deal.

My parents have insisted that they be there, in the courtroom, despite my protests. So have Elliot and Mia. It'll be a fucking family affair and my PR guy's mutterings about the green movement are lost on me as I imagine my mother's face when defense counsel attempts to obliterate me on the stand. Five minutes or five hours pass and I'm at home, alone, continuing to shit myself. The piano has no allure to me, the finest spirits are off-limits.

It's a long, long night before dawn breaks.

Sleep was minimal.

I dress after an intense run and a scalding shower. Dutifully, I leave off my trademark tie and leave my white shirt open at the collar. I don't like it, but I did agree. Taylor collects me and, true to form, doesn't make a song and fucking dance about where we're going and I resolve to keep him in my employ until one of us dies. The drive is shorter than I'd like and my heart twinges uncomfortably with every passing mile.

But it's nothing compared to the near stroke I suffer when we arrive at the court.

The press.

 _All the press._

Everywhere.

They're fucking _everywhere._

Ana said that she couldn't contain them, that freedom of the press was something we Americans just loved to protect, but she didn't say that every dick and his Canon camera in the world would show up. If I had epilepsy, the cacophony of flashing bulbs around me would have had me fitting like nobody's business. Taylor shows his very first breach in professionalism as he drastically slows down with a muttered _holy shit_ under his breath.

We can't even fucking park the car.

There's too many of them.

I feel the color drain from my face. Is this the way it's going to be, every day? Where is Matthew? He said he'd be here first, declining my offer of a ride. Is he already in here? Has he somehow forged his way through the ocean of media whores? Panic grips me as reality sets in fast and hard. This is my life now, and it's open for the taking. I thank my lucky fucking stars that I insisted my family arrive later, they don't need to have their faces splashed across the papers.

They don't deserve this shit.

"Sir… I could double back and see if there is a service entrance?"

Taylor's tone is conciliatory.

I shake my head without meaning to.

How I handle today will set the tone for how I handle the entire trial.

I grit my teeth and swallow a deep swallow as the muffled wave of voices foam.

"No, Taylor, I'll get out here. You go back to Grey House and ensure that no press gets past the entrance. If Andrea needs assistance, find it. I don't want anyone that doesn't have legitimate business to conduct in that building. Is that understood?"

He nods immediately.

"Yes sir."

My hand grips the handle and I brace myself, before his voice distracts me.

"Good luck today sir, please call me if you need anything… at all."

I give him a rare and unprecedented smile.

"Thank you, Taylor."

The morning air is crisp and clean as I step from the car. I am immediately surrounded. Their sticky hands stop beating my car and concentrate on grabbing a piece of flesh. Questions are screamed at me; invasive queries are screeched at me. I can't breathe, I can't grasp a sufficient opening of air. They're everywhere, they circle me and stand stock still against my forceful attempts to break their ranks. Large and fluffy microphones smash into my face and I grit my teeth to prevent an outburst.

 _Mr Grey? Mr Grey can you confirm that your relationship with Mrs Lincoln began when you were fifteen?_

 _Mr Grey, will you be pursuing a civil action?_

 _Mr Grey, was Mrs Lincoln the woman who stole your virginity?_

 _Mr Grey, would you say that your relationship with Mrs Lincoln drove you to be the tycoon you are today?_

I keep my head high and my eyes set straight ahead.

Suddenly, their defences are breached.

 _Ana._

She's here, suddenly, she's here and she's _pissed._ She doesn't come alone, three large men accompany her, presumably court security and they disperse the circus with complete ease. Her hand breaks through the remaining debris and pulls me towards the surface. Our gait is powerful and composed as we take the steps to the courthouse. It's only when I'm shoved into a side-room and the door is firmly shut that I can breathe again.

 _Fuck._

 _Fuck me._

 _That was worse than even my most vivid of nightmares._

Her face swims in and out of focus.

"Christian? Are you ok?"

"Let's get this over and done with," I say quietly, slightly dazed. "Please, Ana, don't ask me anything that isn't necessary to the proceedings of today. I… can we just get this show on the road?"

She nods immediately and yet again, we're walking.

Everything passes in a blur.

The courtroom is large, ornate and expansive. It fills rapidly as Ana leads me to the plaintiff's table. Elena and McCallum are already seated at the defense table and it takes everything I have to ignore her sneakily murmured _last chance to stop this farce, boy…_ thankful that Ana didn't hear her address me as such. I take my seat in a semi-conscious haze. Everything is on fast-forward. A sharp nudge to the ribs is the only thing that alerts me to the arrival of Judge Jefferson.

I stand.

Because that's what I am supposed to do.

The judge speaks, because that's what she's supposed to do, but I don't hear her.

I sit when everyone sits.

My parents and siblings are directly behind me. And so is Matthew. I don't know if I'm comforted or horrified by their closeness. I can hear my father warning my mother not to claw the eyes from Elena's head and that amuses me a little. Ana looks at me in concern as I sink into a state of semi-dissociation. Jury members are called and McCallum objects to two of them, sending Ana leaping to her feet in objection. She is successful and the two matronly looking women are seated. The clocks says we've been here for an hour and thirty minutes.

It feels like five.

It feels like an eternity.

I don't know how it feels, or how I feel.

I feel everything, I feel nothing.

Opening statements. I hear the judge say that and I hear Ana's whispered warning to not react to anything she might say. I stare at her blindly, weirdly impressed by the designer and tailored suit she's wearing. It must be her court suit, the ones she wears in the office are nice, but they're off the rack. I wonder where she goes suit shopping…

She's standing and my human shield against Elena's glare is gone.

I feel it boring into my side and resist the urge to look.

My eyes find Ana instead as she walks slowly towards the jury.

She's poised and in control, deliberately making them wait for her words.

Classic power technique.

She really could be making so much more money.

" _Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning to you all. There are many ways in which prosecuting counsel could approach an opening statement in a case like this. I've decided to go down the road of the short and simple truth. And that short and simple truth is this…"_

She throws a hand over to the defense table and raises a brow.

 _"_ _The defendant in this trial, Mrs Elena Lincoln, raped, molested and otherwise abused the plaintiff, Mr Christian Grey, from the age of fifteen onwards. She was the trusted friend and confidant of his mother and used that position of trust to worm her way into the life and bed of a troubled adolescent boy. She is a preferential predator and a pedophile. Mr Grey, Christian, was not her first victim and nor was he her last. She has a type, ladies and gentlemen, a very specific type and the prosecution shall not rest until you have seen the depths of depravity that the defendant inflicted upon her victims."_

She walks slowly away from the wide-eyed jury, and tilts her head.

 _"_ _Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case that is going to chill you all to your core. This is a case that has chilled me to my core. This is a case of a middle-aged woman and a troubled teenaged boy and the horror of their shared past. You will hear from expert witnesses and fellow survivors and you will see, beyond any and all doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that Mrs Elena Lincoln is the embodiment of evil…"_

She slowly makes her way back to the table, preparing her parting comment.

 _"_ _And it is your duty, as Americans, to ensure she never walks the streets again."_

There's muffled whispering, but it's not from the jury. It's from the defense table. McCallum suddenly leaps to his feet, clutching a piece of paper brought to him by a scurrying security guard, ruffling with excited indignation. Elena wears a slow and sly smirk and I instantly know that shit is about to go down. His sleazy tone projects well as he puffs his chest out like a fucking peacock.

"Your honor," he says gravely, "A witness of intrinsic importance to our case has just now become viable following a late report that I had commissioned by my own investigative team, the findings of which have just been delivered to me in the courtroom today. The defense asks for an exception to the discovery rule, with a view to including this witness as their testimony fulfils the criterion for an override. The defense also requests the leave of the court to treat the witness as hostile. We believe they will be most reluctant to testify without… court persuasion."

Ana leaps to her feet, but the judge waves her down with an irritated paw.

"Mr McCallum, I trust that this move is in good faith and in the pursuit of the truth?"

He nods his greasy little head.

The judge sighs.

"Very well then, who is this witness?"

Elena's smile grows toad-like and a cold dread washes over me. McCallum swoops around like an overgrown bat and drains every moment of dramatism for his case, speaking in a booming voice of conviction that reverberates with customised callousness.

 _"_ _The defense calls… Mr Elliot Grey."_

….

TBC

*Legal liberties have been taken.


	14. Chapter 14

**_The defense calls… Mr Elliot Grey…_**

My head snaps up like a rubber band. Ana stiffens beside me and stares at McCallum through distrusting and disturbed eyes. An explosion detonates inside my head, sending shrapnel particles of confusion and instinctive betrayal into my brain matter. Elliot? _Lelliot?_ What the fuck could they want from him? My own brother? I hear the murmured tones of my parents, my mother more so, they're grilling him and he's not responding. I don't turn around, I can't. I'm frozen in my seat.

What is this?

What the fuck is happening?

Elliot isn't moving. There are no muffled sounds of rising behind me. My parents whisper even more furiously, with a mumble or two from Matthew. McCallum raises a brow and clears his throat, acting as though this delay in compliance is irksome to him. He's a clever bastard. The more Elliot delays, the deeper the drama sits with the jury, and the more kudos settles on his side of the court. He clears his ancient throat and looks slowly towards the Judge as Ana vibrates with a quiet fury beside me, masking her face into such impassiveness that, but for the circumstances, I would have been impressed as shit about.

"Your honor, might you please instruct the witness to take the stand?"

Judge Jefferson looks down like a hawk from the bench and glares.

"Mr Grey, this court has permitted the defense to treat you as a hostile witness. That means your wants in this matter are immaterial when weighted against the law's requirement of transparent justice. Now, you can either take to the witness stand so that we might assess the degree of probative value your testimony holds voluntarily, or I can compel you to do so. Should you resist after you have been compelled, I will have no hesitation in holding you in contempt of this court and having you removed into custody thereunder."

She seems suddenly stricken by a small bout of empathy.

"Mr Grey, you will not be required to recount your full version of events, whatever they may be, today. Today is merely to asses whether or not you may be permitted to be entered upon the defense's witness list for the duration of this trial. It ought not to take any more than ten or so minutes. Now, please take the stand so that we can wrap up matters for today's sitting, it's been rather a long day for all concerned."

This time I can't help but turn, ignoring Ana's whispered warning not to.

She can talk without moving her lips.

Elliot is pale and perspiring. He whitens another shade when I turn to face him, before quickly looking away and at our parents who stare back at him in complete and utter bewilderment. He rises with a spastic gait and clumsily stumbles against the pew. McCallum watches him with glittering eyes, his gaze darting towards me as I watch my own family walk shakily towards the witness stand with shards of glass in my windpipe.

Another distressing thought occurs to me.

Where is Linc, shouldn't he be here by now?

Didn't Ana say he would be here today?

My eyes flit back to Elliot.

 _What the flying fuck is this?_

 _What is he doing?_

 _Why is he doing it?_

I've never had a full-blown panic attack, despite my many triggers. But Flynn has warned me about them, told me all about the symptoms. I think I'm about to descend into the chaos of my first. I can't breathe, there are razor blades in my lungs. Sweat clings to my brow, trickling down my temples. My chest burns with pain, my vision is blurring. I feel apart from myself, I feel trapped in myself. There is a deathly silence and an ear shattering calamity occurring in a concurrent catastrophe around me.

Ana is seething.

I can feel it.

But she can't do anything, she's helpless.

I feel it. I know that feeling.

Elliot climbs the wooden steps and settles onto the stand with extreme unease. A clerk or some such springs forward with a diseased looking bible and thrusts it under his left hand, barking at him to raise his right. The cliché recitation of _do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you god_ rings around in austere tones and despite myself, a small snort of nervous laughter bursts from me, forcing Ana to send me a discreet look of scathing warning.

God?

 _God?_

 _GOD?_

Fuck me, for a superpower, for a world leader, America is still backwards as hell in so many ways. I've learned a lot of shit in my life, but the most predominant of all is an irrevocable fact… there _is_ no God, never has been, never will be. All anyone with five brain cells has to do is to take a look around the happenings of our planet of non-choice and realize that humanity is merely the plague that the Earth is slowly rebelling against with global warming and freakishly destructive acts of nature.

But my brother, my wingman, my _family…_ he swears on God to tell the truth.

The whole truth.

And nothing but the fucking truth.

His voice is barely recognisable. It's muted and emasculated. His eyes dart to Elena nervously and she smiles at him with that toad-like smile that makes my flesh fester with disgust. And it's then that it occurs to me, I've barely seen Elliot since that night I told everyone… everything. Mia, has been stuck to me like Candice the stripper on steroids, my mom and dad have been plaguing my cell and my office phones with non-stop calls and quests for visitation. But Elliot… not so much, and it was only in the muddle that I didn't pick up on it. Where was he? Where was my brother when my life was falling apart at the seams?

Where the fuck was _Lelliot?_

Was he with her? Plotting against me? His brother?

Is this the paranoia and panic talking or is there sense to my ramblings? I clench in confusion. Elliot is my family, he wouldn't do something like this to me. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but whatever comes out of his mouth isn't going to be bad for me, he wouldn't do that. Why would he? Besides, what could he possibly know? What good could he possibly do for that _tramp's_ baseless defense? He doesn't even know Elena, when we were kids, she annoyed him. He hated her overpowering perfume or some shit. McCallum strides to the stand with the pace of a man who knows he has all the cards to play. Elliot glances over his head towards Elena and there's a note of pleading in his eyes that makes my stomach turn.

She smiles her reptilian smile a little wider.

Whatever it is… whatever this is… she's showing no mercy.

My brother's eyes are wide and they're everywhere and anywhere except on me and our parents. Shame colors his neck and his cheeks. The jury are staring at him like he's some kind of zoo exhibit, their eyes flickering back to me to gauge my reaction to this, the most ultimate of betrayals, at least, I think it is. What else _could_ it be? He's not up there to shit on about what a great guy I am, because Ana would've been the one to call him in that case.

Brother against brother.

How fucking _biblical._

McCallum's voice, oily and pompous, fills the air.

"Mr Grey, you are the adoptive elder brother to Mr Christian Grey, the alleged victim, is that correct?"

Elliot blanches and gives a jerky nod, grasping the brass railing so tightly that the whites of his knuckles protrude garishly through the skin. McCallum raises a pointed brow and my loyal, steadfast brother manages to part his lips and offer a shaky verbal answer.

"Yes, that… that is correct."

"And would you say that you have a good relationship with your brother?"

He swallows so hard his Adam's Apple seems to gyrate violently in his throat.

"Yes."

McCallum smiles what's supposed to be an avuncular smile and nods encouragingly. He's warming Elliot up for something and judging by the worsening state of my brother's composure, it's something that is going to tear a whole through the fabric of our family. Ana is simmering beside me, ready and waiting to pounce on an objectional question but I know in my gut that McCallum's too clever for that.

Much, much too clever.

"Mr Grey, as Judge Jefferson has touched upon, today is really a warming-up session and your part thereof is to see whether what you have to say is important enough to provide an exception to the discovery rule. As you are aware, my learned colleague… ADA Steele, is vehemently opposed to your testifying in this case. To the best of your knowledge, Mr Grey, has ADA Steele made any attempts to cultivate your testimony for the benefit of the prosecution?"

Where is he going with this?

Ana stares straight ahead, seemingly unperturbed, but her mind is whirring.

Elliot pales another shade and shakes his head slowly.

"No."

McCallum smiles widely.

"Do you have any idea why that might be?"

Elliot looks at him with indecision, but luckily for him, it was a rhetorical question.

McCallum puffs himself up and I know in my gut that this is his moment. He glances casually across to the jury, claiming their undivided attention. I feel Elena's gaze flickering over to me and I can feel her unsavoury joy, her callous euphoria. I feel myself grow cold as I watch _Frank's_ thin lips spread open as if in slow motion and brace myself, but nothing could have prepared me for what came out of that bastard's mouth.

"Mr Grey, isn't it true that during your shared adolescence, your younger brother professed to you his deep-seated adoration of the defendant and his growing frustrations that said affection was never reciprocated by Mrs Lincoln?"

Elliot visibly shudders, but McCallum isn't done, ploughing on before Ana can find something to object to.

"And isn't it also true that on or around the date of your brother's fifteenth birthday, he confided in you that he had made a sexual advance towards the defendant, only to be vehemently turned down. Isn't it true that he, in keeping with his then pattern of disturbed and violent behavior, which he _still_ receives psychotherapy for today, promised to one day _get even_ with the defendant for _leading him on_? And that he would wait until she was at her happiest with another man to do it? To ruin her like he felt she had ruined him?"

My brother shivers and Ana leaps to her feet, but it's too late.

McCallum smiles a sly smile that I will remember until my dying day.

"Mr Grey, how long have you been happily and romantically involved with Mrs Lincoln?"

….

*Legal liberties have been taken.


	15. Chapter 15

Somehow, I managed to stumble after Ana into some generic waiting room.

Elliot's words are hammering and hammering away at the deepest crevices of my mind. Vomit sloshes in my stomach, desperately seeking an escape. Images, violent and vivid flash before my eyes. My brother, and her. Her, and my brother. Together. In intimacy. Behind my back. The raised brows of the jury are carved into my psyche. Their scandalized looks, their wide-eyed appreciation of the Grey family drama. My parent's paling complexions as they stared from son to son in mounting shock, wondering where the white picket fence dream they worked so hard to provide had fallen.

I am sickeningly grateful that Mia couldn't be here today.

My need to protect her has only grown since the day she came home.

This would break her fucking heart.

Ana is eying me warily, like I'm some kind of splutteringly volatile volcano. And she's not wrong, she's far from it. There's a tinge of rusty rage on my tongue. A blood red velvet curtain of burning anger drapes over my eyes. I have never experienced a betrayal like this. Elliot is my brother, he's my fucking _brother._ How could he do this to me? How could he do this to himself? He could have, and has had, any woman he wants. He's a player, always has been, from Middle School onwards.

 _Elena?_

 _Fucking Elena?_

He said they'd been together for six months. Happily. That in that time, Elena had confided in him that when I was a kid, I'd harboured an almost psychotic fascination for her. How I'd made her uncomfortable, how I'd freaked her out and threatened her when she delicately turned me down and told me that my obsession was just a teenage fad that would eventually fade away. About how she'd become alarmed by my violent reaction, my dark profession of vengeful desire.

How they'd _laughed_ about my adolescent angst.

How they'd stopped laughing when I became aware of their torrid affair and developed a brooding blackness around them, collectively, separately. How I made them queasy with my veiled threats. How I warned them that if they ever took their relationship public, I would use my considerable means to ruin them. How I concocted this whole trial, fabricated the allegations it stands upon. How I'm manipulating a public office to facilitate my delusions. How I've obviously paid Matthew off to corroborate my sick, twisted desire for revenge.

By the time Elliot was removed from the stand, a part of me had died.

Never to be revived.

Her reptilian smile of glee is growing in my mind like a cancer.

All Ana could do was leap to her feet when the damage was done and demand that in light of this turn of events, which the prosecution vehemently denied, that said prosecution had to be allowed the opportunity of reasonable rebuttal. Some mumbo jumbo about the floodgates being opened and exceptional circumstances demanding a further exception to the discovery rule and a superseding of spousal privilege, facilitated by a marriage only in name between the defendant and her estranged husband. By that time, I was already in the darkness and it was hard to hear but I'm pretty sure the Judge was unimpressed. But Ana was relentless. Something about without such an exception to counter the outrageous testimony being offered, the jury assembled would be tainted and an early mistrial would have to be called. I vaguely remember her calmly reciting caselaw as precedent and a frown puckering the Judge's face as she snapped her fingers at the clerk, demanding some dusty volume to be delivered to her. After much rustling and frowning, she eventually gave a curt nod and granted Ana's request to allow Linc's testimony.

She swatted McCallum's indignant outburst down.

His barks of _fabricated evidence, chain of custody, time worn…_ still swim in my mind. Jefferson had scrawled something down and sharply ordered Ana to turn the evidence in question over to the court so that it might be sent for independent verification of authenticity. Ana's calm exterior was never rattled as she acquiesced and McCallum's dire warnings of alleging prosecutorial misconduct failed to ruffle her feathers.

The ordeal ended with the Judge's scathing remarks.

 _Never in my thirty-three years on the bench have I overseen such a circus on preliminary matters. Mr McCallum, this courtroom is not yet another of your outlets in which you strive to puff your chest out another inch. I do not appreciate theatrics within these walls. Your exception to the discovery rule is one of the precious few that will be granted in this case and, for your sake, it had better continue to be in the furtherance of justice… because if I find that anything… untoward has occurred here today, at your behest, your trial days will be swiftly behind you…._

Before turning to Ana with a similar glare of disapproval.

 _ADA Steele, I appreciate that you are young and new, but you are by all accounts in possession of a brilliant mind. I would urge you to use same with more circumspection moving forwards. Spousal privilege is something that I as a Justice uphold with the vigour that the sanctity of marriage demands. If I find that I have ordered the piercing of that veil on foot of evidence that is found to be in any way… doctored or imagined… your time at the Attorney's office will be but a swift and sharp memory._

Before turning to the jury with a remarkably softer expression.

 _Ladies and gentleman, I apologize for the histrionics you have been subjected to here today. Usually, these matters do not occur on opening day and when they do, they are generally confined to Judge's chambers. However, these matters are of such an inordinate and important quality, that the transparency of justice demands that you be privy to matters that I expect will form an integral part of this trial. It is my instruction that you leave here today with an open mind regarding both sides and arrive tomorrow with fresh eyes and ears, so that you might treat each and every day of this trial with the attention and integrity that such a case as this demands. And of course, you are prohibited from discussing anything that you have heard today, or matters of this trial in general, with anyone outside of yourselves. Thank you for your time, that will be all for today…._

And that was our cue to leave.

And here we are.

Ana is swallowing, and I realize that this is the first time I have ever seen her break a sweat. Is she more afraid of me than she is of McCallum and Jefferson? Because she sure as shit didn't blink an eye or miss a beat in that courtroom, hammering home the need for Linc's testimony without faltering in the foray of what went down today. I stare back at her and the darkness dances around me, just waiting for the last domino of my mind to fall and swallow me whole. Panic continues to pierce my chest, but the crushing weight of betrayal is the anchor that threatens to suffocate me.

"Christian, there's something I need to tell you and… please, you must try and understand. You really have to _try_ and think it through logically and dispassionately, because… I had to think it through logically and dispassionately. I had to _really_ think it through and the consequences of what I knew I had to do. Telling you this could ruin me, but you need to know the truth and more importantly, you need to _understand_ the truth. I couldn't tell you beforehand, your reaction was going to be scrutinized, it had to be authentic… You see, I had a hypothetical conversation with a retired Justice, a family friend and I put it to him about the probability of getting Mr Lincoln's testimony on the record and he was… dubious. Very dubious, he confirmed what I feared and that was… that the circumstances would have to be extraordinary in order for it to happen. We need that testimony, it's the one irrefutable smoking gun we have. I thought it couldn't be done but then Elliot, your brother, he came to me and told me that Mrs Lincoln had been-"

Her words are cut short as my confusion balloons into extra-terrestrial territory.

The door suddenly bounds open and my head snaps to the entrance.

Larger than life, with his arms outstretched, and his trademark ear-to-ear grin splayed across his face, is Elliot.

"Hey there brother, was I good up there or _what?"_

…


	16. Chapter 16

I don't think I've ever seen anyone in so much agony.

I thought I was doing the right thing, morally. Legally, I'm in a world of hell that I don't ever envisage clawing my way out of. I've just done something I thought I'd never, ever do. Something I'd look down on with contempt if ever it were to come to my attention through the actions of another. I agonized with myself, I tossed and turned and turned and tossed through night after night. But… in the end, the decision wasn't mine. Not consciously anyway. Because every time I look at him I see the gray eyed boy that she molested, the troubled teenager she exploited for her own sick, sadistic thrills.

When his brother came to me, it was the beginning of the end.

I am no longer Anastasia Steele, youngest ADA in Washington history.

I am Anastasia Steele, an ADA willing to suborn perjury in the name of justice.

Because that is what this boils down to, justice. And justice wasn't going to be served unless I did what I did, unless Elliot did what he did. I couldn't tell Christian that Mr Lincoln's evidence was never going to see the light of day save in the event of extraordinary circumstances. And that's what Elliot's predicament was, _extraordinary circumstances._ The eldest Grey brother is… colorful, to say the least. His construction company isn't as green as he makes out and its borne the brunt of his creative taxation practices. If the IRS ever got wind of the true balance sheet Elliot holds, he'd be done. He'd be looking at real time and his business would be sold off for parts.

He's an idiot.

And that's why McCallum and Elena saw him as an easy mark. Their PI investigator is top of the line, costs more than my annual take home pay for an average investigation. He has friends and eyes everywhere and Elliot's tax evasion wasn't that hard for him to uncover. He was an easy mark. They came to him, at home, in the middle of the night and spoon fed him the bullshit he would have to peddle to stay out of jail himself and keep his company alive. He's an idiot, but he's not a coward. He came to me and told me everything.

And that's when I saw a way in.

A corrupt, illegal and misconduct ridden way in.

But a way in nonetheless. I thought I could get Mr Lincoln's evidence in the right way, but I was wrong. I'm rarely wrong, but on that, I was wrong as hell. How could I go back and tell Christian that the smoking gun that would blow open the case for us had to go back into storage? I couldn't. I wouldn't. He's barely started to trust me. He's a closed book, private and distrusting. If he sees any reason to distrust me, he's going to take it and the case will suffer.

I couldn't let that happen.

But I underestimated the consequences. Christian is a shade of white that I have never seen on another human being. Elliot's smile is faltering and he's taking a step backwards, raising his hands in placating defence. My heart skips a beat as my stomach sinks to the floor. Doubts pierce me like darts. Have I done the wrong thing for the right reasons or have I done the wrong thing for the wrong reasons?

Because one can only lie to oneself for so long.

And I can no longer pretend that my feelings towards Christian Grey are strictly pure.

Because they're not.

They're not pure.

Not anymore.

"Christian," Elliot warns, "You gotta listen to me brother, there's more to this than meets the eye. You have to listen… you just have to listen, and everything will make sense to you, I-"

I have never, ever heard a voice so cold.

It chills my soul.

"You _bastard,"_ Christian all but whispers. "You sick, twisted son-of-a-bitch. You and her… _you and her…_ how could you? How could you do that? How could you get up there and fucking humiliate me like that? You've put your dick in a lot of sick places but _Elena fucking Lincoln?_ I thought you hated her, I thought you found her irritating as hell, but you were able to put all that on hold to sleep with a woman more than twenty years older than you?"

He takes a step closer and Elliot takes a swift step backwards.

"You are the lowest of the low," Christian seethes and his rage is terrifying. "You are a coward, a back-stabbing fucker. You get up there, on public fucking record, and announce to the world that the woman who molested me throughout my entire adolescence is actually a sweet angel who has had to suffer the misfortune of batting off my teenage obsession turned adult vendetta?"

"Christian," Elliot interjects, "Listen, I-"

"You got up there in front of our _parents_ and told them and the fucking universe that I'm imbalanced and that I've made this whole thing up. You got up there and told our parents and the fucking universe that I'm sick in the head, that I'm deluded and have been for _years?_ Why? Why would you do that? _How could you do that?_ Is she that good of a fuck, is that it? I don't really remember what with the attaching trauma and all, but I think I would remember if she were such an earth shattering lay as to justify brother turning against brother in a court of fucking law and public opinion."

His last sentence turns to a roar and his hands ball into fists.

Elliot turns a despairing eye towards me and I swallow the lump in my throat.

"Don't you _dare_ try and turn it around on Ana," Christian snarls, "She has nothing to do with this. This is all on you and unless you have the most amazing explanation known to man, I will knock every fucking tooth out of your skull and shove them down your throat one by one you sick, self-centred son of a-"

My voice sounds oddly disembodied.

I barely recognize it.

I barely recognize a lot about myself since…

Since I met him.

"Christian. Stop. Stop and sit down. There's something we have to tell you, there's something you need to know…"

He turns his head towards me slowly, gray eyes ablaze with betrayal.

I feel physically sick.

He glances between me and his wary looking brother with distrust blooming like an oddly wilted summer crop and turns on his heel, throwing himself down on the drab sofa in the corner of the room. Elliot edges back in over the threshold and understands my silent look, shutting the door softly behind him. The air is thick with tension and I realize that I haven't felt this on edge in years.

Because I've never had this much to lose.

Professionally.

And personally… even though he has no idea… even though he can never know…

I knew that sooner or later, I would have to tell him everything. How Elliot was willing to lose everything for him, how I convinced him to turn a loss into a win. How I convinced him to play double agent. How I convinced him to appear like he was in Elena's camp whilst all the while doing his part to ensure that the suffering visited upon his only brother didn't go unpunished. We both knew it was always going to be a tough sell when the private truth came out, but I never thought it would be this painful.

I didn't know it _could_ be so painful to witness another's pain.

My voice is not the usual assured tone that I make sure to use at every juncture. It isn't the usual verbiage of calm and collected professional. It's the halted, stunted speech of one who knows they're over the line but hopes to God that the person they've offended against can find it within themselves to see what they had seen, to view the bigger picture. As my explanation, aided here and there by Elliot, comes to an end I don't think my hopes are going to pan out.

A screaming silence fills the room when we fall silent.

For a lifetime, Christian says nothing, not a single word.

Eventually, his tortured voice, hoarse with shock and betrayal seeps out.

"Let me get this straight. Elliot, you've been evading your tax obligations for years and Elena's PI dug up the dirt that would end your company and see you in jail. They came to you with the story you told on the stand today and blackmailed you into testifying. You went to Ana with that story and the two of you came out with that happened in that courtroom today, all so that you could stay out of trouble and Linc's testimony could get entered into evidence?"

His monotone is new.

And heart-breaking.

Elliot and I exchange looks and nod in tandem.

That was, to be fair, about the size of it.

But somehow, it was all the more excruciating to hear it from Christian's mouth.

He stands slowly and smooths down his trouser pants. He stares at the two of us for a moment and stands in silence. My heart beats to a rhythm I've never before experienced, and it feels all too much like a cardiac episode. Elliot stands beside me, almost defensively, and far from being grateful for his presence all I can think about is how he's the wrong Grey brother, how he's not the Grey brother I want by my side.

He speaks to me first.

In a voice so cold the ice caps freeze over; global warming be damned.

"You're fired, Miss Steele. You are no longer necessary or required. I am dropping this case. It is a fiasco, a circus. It is not something I want associated with my name. I will hire a private attorney to smooth out this mess, quietly. My PR people will cover damage control and there shall be no need for you and me to ever engage again. You are… ultimately… a greater disappointment than I am equipped to deal with."

He smooths down his tie as my heart slices into unequal halves.

The movement of his fist is sudden and extreme and the impact sound of it meeting Elliot's nose is ear shattering. Blood spurts, crimson and hot, everywhere. Under the muffled groans and cursing escaping the eldest Grey offspring, Christian wipes his hand on the side of his pants and giving an oddly professional, dispassionate nod… turns and leaves the room.

He closes the door quietly, very quietly.

But hours later, when I lie awake in the dead of night, I know I will hear that gentle snap.

Over and over again.

What the _hell_ have I done?

….


	17. Chapter 17

Carrick stares at me with incomprehension in his eyes.

Frustration boils within me.

 _Yeah, dad, turns out your favorite son is a fucking grade A asshole._

Revelations abound.

Grace is being comforted by said asshole and Mia in the other room. She'll swallow Elliot's BS up like a hoover and think him a misguided hero. Elliot has always been the better son, I have no choice but to admit it, and this fiasco will only serve to confirm it. Sure, he's a tax evading hypocrite, but he was willing to risk everything for his baby brother. No one will even stop to think that he did what he did purely to keep his salty ass _out_ of jail. Oh no, no sir. Not precious Elliot. He's made a public spectacle of himself out of nothing but sheer brotherly love.

The fantasy of snapping his neck floods me.

And not for the first time.

"So you're telling me that ADA Steele and Elliot came up with this plan together, to ensure Linc's testimony would be admitted through discovery exception and to keep Elliot on the right side of Elena's and McCallum's dirty play?"

Gripping my glass of Armagnac with temper, I give him a sharp nod.

"That's about the size of it."

He whistles lowly through his teeth and I wait for his scandalized sermon to begin. Carrick is, at times, an annoyingly ethical man. Especially when it comes to the law and those who practice it. He is scrupulous in his dealings, always has been. Hence his respected, near on revered status in the legal community. One of the good guys, Mr Carrick Grey, an old-school, clean-cut attorney you can trust to do the right thing.

At least _he'll_ see Ana for the ambulance-chasing cheap suit she turned out to be.

Elliot will still come up smelling of roses in his estimations, he always does.

We can't have it all I guess.

"I knew ADA Steele was a talent, but hell… I didn't know she was _that_ good."

Say again?

 _What the fuck did he just say?_

"I don't think you understand," I snap, cold confusion in my words. "She conspired with Elliot behind my back to break the law, violate every ethical and moral obligation known to man and make an unholy show of this entire family in the process. How can you possibly say that she's anything more than a-"

"A young lady willing to put her life and career on the line to ensure justice is served for someone in desperate need of it? A young lady who has never gone up against the likes of Frank McCallum before and still managed to hold her own, at a great personal and professional sacrifice? Christian, son, there is a bigger picture here. A much bigger picture. Yes, you're right, what ADA Steele did in professional terms is… outrageous, duplicitous and an affront to the judicial system. But that system is broken. It's a commodity. It can be bought and sold like bread and milk. That's a harsh truth I've learned over the years, and I don't entertain criminal law. It's easier to stay clean when your clients are cookie cutter American companies with healthy balance sheets and a solid customer base. They don't need the Frank McCallum's of this world. The Criminal Justice system is different, Christian. ADA Steele was faced with an impossible decision… and whether you can see it or not… she did the wrong thing for the right reasons and it took a hell of a lot of courage to do it."

My blood spurts to a rolling boil.

I was prepared for my parents to cover up Elliot's part in this with platitudes and emotional speeches. I sure as shit wasn't prepared for Carrick of all people to leap to Ana's defence. What she did was… she… they fucking plotted behind my back. As if I were deficient or sufficiently unintelligent enough to play a part in the biggest decision of my life. Don't they get that? Don't they know why I'm so fucking pissed off? Frustration strangles me as I slap my glass down and rise from my chair.

Fuck this.

I don't need this right now.

They don't understand, any of them, they just don't fucking get it.

My mother's calls mix in with Carrick's as I storm down my childhood driveway and slam my way into my car. I need space. I need space from them, from all of it. The roads are inky black and wet slicked as I head back to Escala, back to my empty eye in the sky. I get there in record time and lock the door behind me, turning my cell off and throwing it on the kitchen counter. The piano bears the brunt of my frustration. I haven't played like this in years and the windows vibrate with musical rage.

Until the buzzer puts an end to it.

Snarling, I rise to check the CCTV and tell whatever asshole family member that was unwise enough to show up here to take a hike. My anger fizzles slightly and is replaced by a healthy serving of niggling guilt. I've been so wrapped up in myself that I haven't spared anyone else a second thought. _Nicely done, Grey, you asshole._

I buzz Matthew in.

He's haggard looking, tired. When I let him into my apartment I realize he's aged around the eyes and the hairline. He silently accepts my offer of a beer and sits opposite me at the kitchen counter, clearing his throat.

"So…"

My niggling guilt at ignoring Matthew before is subsiding.

I am in no mood to talk.

"Yeah."

He takes a swig and shoots me a look I can't decipher.

"You always been this much of a selfish prima donna, Christian?"

Craft beer that costs more than an average citizen's daily wage is still liable to choke its patrons when shocked. I let him in here because I felt bad about ignoring his part in all of this, but I don't feel anywhere near as bad as necessary to allow him to open this can of worms in my own house.

"Look, Matthew, I'm not in the mood for a fight. If that's what you've come here for… then you need to leave."

"It's all about you, isn't it? You don't want this, you don't want that. You don't feel like this, you don't feel like that. Here's a newsflash, Christian, you're not the only victim in all of this. You're not the only who stands to lose everything by throwing this case out like a baby throwing their toys out of the pram. I know what happened, ok? I caught up with your brother and he told me it all, the whole story. And from where I'm sitting, I don't see a problem. ADA Steele and your brother did what they had to do… for you."

My eyes close slowly.

The frustration I felt with Carrick is returning.

Does nobody get it?

Is it that fucking complicated?

"Elena took everything from me," I hear myself growl. "You should know better than anyone what that's like. She took all control and I've _just_ started to claw that control back. This case… is about achieving that just as much as it is about achieving justice. The problem isn't what Ana and Elliot did… the problem is that they did behind my fucking back and blindsided me in the middle of a packed, public courtroom. Don't you get that? Is it that difficult to understand?"

He freezes mid-sip.

"I didn't think of it like that."

"No shit."

Stony silence fills the lull in conversation and I have to fight the urge to herd him the hell out. I just want to be alone. I want to forget about Elena, Ana, all of it. And I can't do that with my opposite number gawking at me.

"That still doesn't give you the right to pull this case. You know as well as I do that there are victims still out there that still haven't found the courage to come forward. They're waiting to see how this case pans out. How do you think you, Christian Grey, bowing down at the first sign of trouble is going to translate to them? They're going to retreat further into their shells and Elena will skip off into the fucking sunset, another twisted win under her belt. Is that what you want? Is that the kind of man you want to be?"

 _Seriously?_

What am I, a test case?

Leader of industry I am, leader of the broken children I'm not.

"I am under no obligation to hold their hands," I snap. "Or yours, as a matter of fact. You're only here because you watched your statute of limitations pass you by so please, spare me the sermon. You didn't do what you're here preaching to me about, why should I? You know the kind of man McCallum is. The kind of woman Elena is. That combination of evil and intelligence is something I'm no longer willing to gamble my life on. Today just showed me what I was running away from… what's done is done. We just need to draw a line under it and move the hell on."

Matthew purses his lips and shakes his head.

 _Piss poor bedside manner, doctor._

"Bullshit, Christian. Complete and utter bullshit. Yeah, you're right, I missed my shot and I'll regret that for a long time to come yet. But you didn't, and you started the ball rolling and now, you're going to stop it in its tracks because Elena's lawyer got a little dirty? Did you really think he wouldn't? Did you think she was going to hire an angel? It's _Elena._ I understand why you're angry with Ana and Elliot. They should have told you about what they were planning, they should have clued you in. But can't you see that the reason they didn't… was _this?_ They were afraid you'd bolt, throw the case. Not to mention the fact that Ana could be disbarred for what she did, everything she's ever worked for… gone. Just like that. And she did what she did anyway, for you. For us, all of us. You don't like how she did it, that's fine. You're entitled. But you're not entitled to screw yourself and everyone else over because you're feeling railroaded and embarrassed. This is bigger than that… so much bigger."

 _Hello, Oprah._

"She should be disbarred," I growl. "Rules are there for a reason and-"

"Grow up, Christian. If two teams aren't willing to abide by the same rules, then those rules don't mean shit. McCallum and Elena were never going to play fair or clean, and if Ana followed the rulebook verbatim, you'd lose. You'd lose hard. It's a little prudish for a man in your position to look down on someone who's willing to do whatever it takes to get the right result."

A snarl erupts from my throat.

"A man in my position? The fuck do you mean by that, _doctor?"_

He's unruffled.

Completely unruffled.

"You're one of the richest and youngest entrepreneurs in America. Nobody gets there without a little disregard for convention. Nobody. I know I didn't get where I am without playing the game when and where I had to. Your problem _isn't_ with what they did, it's with _how_ they did it. You have an incessant need for control. I noticed it the moment I met you. And the reason why you're so pissed off is because they watered down your control. You know it and I know it."

 _Someone shone in their psych rotation._

I, for the first time, say nothing.

He's not wrong.

 _Time for some introspection, Grey._

If Ana and Elliot had come to me and discussed their plan with me _before_ executing it, would I have reacted the way I did?

No.

I wouldn't.

Matthew is right and he's not telling me anything I didn't already know, even if I didn't want to admit it. My problem, and it's a completely understandable fucking problem, is that my brother and Ana went behind my back. I can't have that. I can't have major decisions being made about my life with no input from me. This isn't a game, or a clever chess move here and there, it's my _life._ I have a right to veto shit that I'm not happy with, I have a right to be consulted. I know… I'm not stupid… I know the risk that Ana took to do what she did, and I know that realistically… Elliot could have found another way to skirt his tax evasion charges.

They did what they did to help me.

I just hate the way that they did it.

The buzzer goes again before I can formulate something to say. Sighing, I once again check the CCTV and feel my heart sink to tectonic levels when I see Ana and Elliot looking pensive on screen. It's like Grand Central Station around here. I debate ignoring the buzz, but I know that'll just set Matthew off on another gospel sermon. I jab the release button and scowl at the two of them in greeting, gleaming a small glimmer of satisfaction from their pale faces.

Good.

I hope they feel like shit.

They deserve it.

When I turn around, they're standing beside Matthew in some sort of freakish line-up of irritation. I stay by the door and glare at the three of them, each a source of apparently infinite annoyance. Elliot, my fuck-wit brother with the big heart and tiny brain. Ana, my passionate representative with the big brain and bigger balls and Matthew, my… I don't know what the fuck he is. Friend? Can I call him a friend?

I need to look up the definition of friend.

I like to be factually accurate.

In all things.

Must be another manifestation of my… how did he put it… _incessant need for control._

I open my mouth, but Ana gets there first.

"Christian, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm not sorry for what I did. I'm sorry for how I did it. I shouldn't have orchestrated things behind your back and without your knowledge. I was taking a huge risk and I thought the less people that knew about it, the better. It was strictly need to know and for the successful completion of the plan, you didn't need to know. In fact, it would have and _did_ work better without you knowing. But I was blind to the bigger picture… we won the battle by doing what we did… but to win the war… I need your trust. Your complete and unequivocal trust. Making decisions without your input isn't how we're going to win, and I promise… if you reconsider your decision to continue… that something like this will never happen again."

She falls silent and I'm amazed by how many words she can fit in one mouthful.

I wonder what else she can fit in her mouth….

 _No, Grey, stop it. Fucking focus._

She's so beautiful when she's passionate though… her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle.

She's telling me the truth.

Elliot offers his version with the same crooked smile and sheepish nod he's always skated on.

With the benefit of a pulsating nose still caked with dry blood.

The trio are a convincing team.

I close my eyes and see Elena's face, I see her victorious sneer. I'm playing straight into her hands and I know it. One of the virtues of a successful CEO is knowing when one is wrong. And right now, I'm in the wrong. Not for being furious with Ana and Elliot, no. I have a right to be and I will continue to be until it naturally fades away. But to throw the towel in at this juncture because of their misguided attempt to help me, to help all of her victims?

On that, I'm wrong.

My voice is a low growl.

"You two ever pull anything like this again and you'll regret it. I am not a child, I am not a precious fucking flower. I have a right to know about shit like you pulled today. I know that we can't beat Elena by playing squeaky clean so next time, clue me the hell in and don't assume you know what's best for me. I didn't get to where I am by putting my life in the hands of other people and I don't intend to start now. Do you two geniuses understand that?"

Jesus Christ, Ana is stunning when she's abashed.

Elliot just looks as goofy as ever.

Matthew is the epitome of smug, but he's earned it.

"Does that mean… the case continues?" Ana asks, and I note with approval that the strong, confident tone I associate with her is well and truly noted in her voice.

I nod and throw her a small smile.

"You're rehired, Miss Steele."

She disarms me by throwing me back an equally small smirk.

"I don't work for you, Mr Grey. I am an Assistant District Attorney of the United States of America. Uncle Sam signs _my_ paychecks. Do we understand each other?"

I raise a brow, oddly turned on by her sudden sass and incline my head.

"Yes, Ma'am."

…..


	18. Chapter 18

They're finally gone.

I've never been one for over-indulging in sleep, but right now all I can think about is climbing into bed and turning the page on this never ending day. Ana's clean perfume lingers in the air as I gather the assortment of dirty glasses left behind and place them in the sink for Mrs Jones. After a solid hour of trial strategizing, my mind is bleeding with collective psychologies and legal precedents. Ana is confident, as much as she ever was. Elliot is mindlessly willing to do or say whatever she tells him to do and Matthew is expected to be heralded as our star witness, alongside Linc. I had my doubts about Elena's scorned husband's use, but Ana insisted he was absolutely integral.

Without him, it's all a case of; _he said, she said…_

With him, it's solid, physical evidence.

Somehow, I think she saw right through my objections. It's not really what Linc will say that makes my skin crawl, it's what he can _show._ The footage. The damning recordings centred around the stage of The Classroom. The things I said, the things I did… the things I allowed to be done… all ingrained on a tape that cannot lie. I scrunch my eyes shut and try to push the disgusted faces of the packed courtroom from my mind. I was a kid. That's what I have to keep telling myself, over and over again. I was a child, Matthew was a child, this is all Elena's doing and the shame belongs to her and her alone.

Not that she'll ever feel an ounce of it.

Elena feels nothing.

It's the greatest strength that protects her pitiful existence.

Elliot will meet with her before trial continues tomorrow. Ana wisely kept my outburst about yanking the case to herself and the wheels of justice will continue to spin. As far as the court knows, Elliot _is_ in fact in a committed relationship with the woman who supposedly defiled his brother. That façade must continue… for the foreseeable future… but not indefinitely. No, not indefinitely. The truth will come out eventually, at the opportune moment. Swallowing that lie is something that will take every ounce of stamina I have. Our parents will have to be poker faced, speaking and trusting no one. Once Linc's testimony is in and fed to the jury in bite-sized pieces… we can relax a little, but not until then. Not for the first time, I wonder whether it's all worth it. And not for the first time, I focus on what she took from me, from us, and I know it is.

I hope Mrs Jones changed my sheets.

I always sleep better when she's freshly laundered my bedclothes.

I think she knows that.

The lights are just about to flick off when the buzzer wails for the millionth fucking time of the night. _Jesus Christ, what now? Who now?_ There are people sleeping under bridges that have more privacy than me right now. I ignore it. They'll go away…

They don't.

They don't go away.

The buzzer shrieks again and I turn the lights back up with a snarl. It'll be Mia, waiting to implode into a pint-sized frenzy. I love my little sister, really, I do. But now is not the time. I'm so fucking _tired_ and my eyes burn with fatigue when I strain them to focus on the CCTV. Confusion and instinctive alarm grips me as I inspect the clear-cut image. I don't know this person and I sure as shit don't know how this person bypassed the countless locks and checks one needs to circumvent to get to penthouse level at Escala.

Because the buzzing isn't coming from the ground level.

It's coming from right inside the elevator that serves as my fucking front door.

Instinct kicks in and I press the release button with a jab, taking a step back and contemplating ringing for Taylor. The doors slide open slowly and the visitor doesn't blink an eye or ask for an invitation as they step over the threshold into my home, in the middle of the fucking night. It hits me. Why the clothes are so familiar. The woollen sweater vest, maroon in color with a pretentious crest emblazoned in the top left corner. The stark and crisp white shirt, accompanied by the green flecked yellow tie and the tailored khaki pants.

The attire of my alma matter.

It's a kid.

Fourteen, fifteen at a push and sixteen at an absolute maximum.

How the fuck did he get up here?!

Why the fuck did he get up here?!

 _Who the hell is he and what does he want?_

Speak, Grey, speak.

"Can I help you?"

Oh yeah, that's perfect. Ask him does he want extra pickle on his hamburger while you're at it Grey, you fucking moron. The kid looks up at me though he's not much shorter and the stark green hue of his eyes startles me, particularly when set against his pale, troubled and yet almost unnaturally handsome face. His backpack is slung over his shoulder and he grips the strap in a hand far too slender for his age, clearing his throat with obvious fear in his eyes.

But there's something else, something more than fear.

 _Rage._

He's simmering with it, threatening to boil over at any moment.

"Kid," I snap, suddenly and acutely aware that there's an unknown minor in my apartment in the middle of the night, without invitation or permission. "Who are you and what do you want? How did you get up here? Why did you get up here? Where are your parents and-"

"Why are you doing this to her?"

I stop mid-rant and feel my jaw swing open.

"Why am I doing what to who?"

He locks me with his gaze and his intensity is outrageous for one so young.

"Why are you trying to ruin Mrs Lincoln's life? After everything she's done for you, everything she sacrificed for you? She saved you, Christian Grey, she told me all about you and this is how you repay her? By lying to the world and by painting her as some kind of sick pedo?"

I cannot speak, blink or breath as he takes a step closer.

His voice catches as he positively spits venom up at me.

"You had your time with her… it's my time now… who the _hell_ are you to take it away?"

…

Following on from, and with her approval, UndercoverSquint's idea of promoting love between authors I'd like to get on board with the recommendation system. This updates recommendation is Irrevocable by 1974alner! Nothing I can say about this story will do it justice, this lady is in a league of her own and Irrevocable will leave you wanting more and more!

Following further in UndercoverSquint's footsteps and with her approval, I've decided to address the many PM's I receive asking for a sneak-peak at upcoming chapters. I don't want to spoil updates for people who don't want to know, but if you leave a "Sneak peek please" in a review, I will PM you with a short excerpt from the next chapter to be posted soon! This applies to all my stories! X

Love and hugs,

Inks xx


	19. Chapter 19

Taylor sprints into the room, and for the first time since I've met him, he is panicked, which has the odd effect of calming me. I hold up a hand as he advances on this unknown boy and he stops dead in his tracks. The kid stares back at me with a tight jaw and a fantastically condescending gaze. There's something about him, something I feel connected to. Some would label the phenomenon I'm experiencing a kindred spirit… I would call it the furtherance of what led me to the penthouse we all stand in.

My ability to read people.

It isn't just the familiar uniform and the arrogance. It isn't just the cold, detached aura that hangs over the kid's head and the obvious wealth that clings to him. No, it's not just those tells. It's in the eyes. It's all in the eyes. His are as shockingly green as mine are oddly gray. And everything I need to know about him is written in the vibrant irises, the hollowness of his pupils. Matthew may be my polar opposite in terms of looks, mannerisms and core traits. But this kid… this boy… he is about as far from my polar opposite as one can be.

He's me, a decade ago.

He's Elena's present-day Christian Grey.

And he thinks he loves her now just as much as I did back then.

And that makes him dangerous.

Taylor attempts to advance again but one look stops him dead, a quizzical frustration clouding his face. The kid and I stare at each other dead in the eyes before my hand moves towards the kitchen. I force myself to calm the fuck down and address the fundamentals.

"What's your name?"

The kid assesses me coolly, tries to read me.

"Ethan Rossiter."

Rossiter…

 _Rossiter…_

Why is that name so familiar and yet unfamiliar? I know that name and yet I know no one by it. _Rossiter…_ where the hell have I heard that before? Those freakishly green eyes never leave mine as I think, and it hits me. Carrick. Carrick and his golf obsession, Carrick trying to coax sixteen year-old-me onto the course by assuring me his friend's son would be accompanying his father, that we had loads in common, we even went to the same school. They lived in our neighbourhood, if you can call it that…

My voice isn't as calm this time around as my mind shits out the information I need.

"Do you know a Cameron Rossiter?"

A flicker of surprise, a crack in the haughty persona, flashes across his face.

"He's my older brother, why?"

Jesus fucking Christ. Did she work through my entire childhood neighbourhood? Does she have a fucking map she's working from? The Rossiter's family home is five or six houses down from the Grey family home. Cameron and I went to the same prep school for a time, before they threw me out. I am paralyzed by her gall, by her audacity… she really thought she'd never, ever be caught. She does such an amazing job of warping her victims, it's a near reasonable assumption on her part. Ethan is heaving with the effort of leaping to her defence. He genuinely thinks she loves him, that he's special… all the things I would have fought for at his age.

I swallow.

And turn to Taylor slowly.

"Leave us."

His eyes nearly pop clean out of his head.

"No, Sir, I'm sorry but-"

"You may well be sorry when we discuss this flagrant breach of security so easily executable by a minor child," I snap, "But _later._ Leave us… and make sure you set the TiVo to record the movie we were talking about, I don't want to miss a word of it. Now get out."

He gawks.

For the first time since I've known the man, he gawks.

Before slowly edging out of the room in disquiet, with what I hope is a glimmer of comprehension in his eyes. Ethan watches him leave with an odd disinterest. This kid… he's different, not your usual teenage boy. It doesn't make me proud, but he gives me the fucking creeps. It's his pale skin and all-too-knowing eyes. It's the way he carries himself like a man in his forties and not a kid in his teens. I cough and point to the sofa.

"Take a seat, Ethan."

Anger crosses his jutting features.

"I'm not here for hot milk and deep chats, Grey. I'm here to ensure that you desist from ruining Mrs Lincoln's life. I'm here to force you to confront the truth about yourself and remember where you came from. I'm here to remind you of whom you owe everything to and what you _should_ be doing about that. I'm not here to be your friend."

I feel my brows raise.

"Maybe so, but house rules dictate that intruders sit when politely asked."

He glowers at me and I see the first hint of normal adolescent arrogance.

And it's a relief.

He throws himself down on the sofa, clutching his backpack to him. Questions burn inside me as I take a seat in the armchair opposite, desperately aware of how fucked up it is to have a minor victim of the pedophile I'm trying to take down… in my home… alone with me… in the middle of the night. Maybe I shouldn't have sent Taylor away, maybe I should have insisted that Ana be located and returned. But I am who I am and have what I have from gut instinct and my gut is telling me that it has to be this way.

Just me and him.

The past and the present.

Start off with a factual question, Grey, no emotional attachment.

"So, how'd you get up here? As you can probably tell, I'm pretty intense when it comes to security. Unaccompanied and uninvited minors generally don't end up in my private elevator in the middle of the night. Care to share how you bypassed every security measure this place has?"

The haughtiness is back, and he eyes me like my IQ is in the shit.

"Does it really matter dude?"

Dude?

 _Dude?_

I am not… dude.

I'm Christian fucking Grey.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I remind myself that this kid is a victim.

"Well, that depends on whether or not you'd like to give your answer to me or to the police. I don't know if you're aware, but breaking into someone's home… especially a home belonging to someone like me… is frowned upon. Illegal, even."

The police.

The police are his weakness.

Fear.

The first flicker of real fear.

My gut grinds into high gear and I know there and then that this kid has a record. That there's something… there. No boy with a normal past of police interaction recoils in fear at the mention of the boys in blue. My throat constricts a little as I look down memory lane as it sits across from me. Maybe its presumptuous, biased… even downright arrogant… but I feel like I already know Ethan's story.

How she got him.

Why she targeted him.

"Your security system is extremely expensive," he says stiffly, "But extremely expensive doesn't necessarily equate to extremely effective. Purely electronic and interactive security systems have soft pockets, targets, if you will. If you know how to use laptop for more than googling soft porn and move times, it's not that hard to run and end-around. It also helps if you have the humility to accept that you're not bulletproof where your target does not."

He shoots me a loaded look and my uncomfortable feelings intensify.

"You are not bulletproof, Christian Grey."

Weird.

This kid is weird.

Weird as _fuck._

"Ok," I counter, "I'll have my people look into it. The next question is why you felt the need to break into my home in the middle of the night. You clearly know a lot about me, you could have found me at work… during the day. And yet you chose to creep around in the darkness… why?"

He smiles his first and distinctly unsettling smile.

"Because people are always the most vulnerable in their homes… and in the night."

The hairs on the back of my neck are beginning to stand up.

"Are you studying psychology in school or something?"

He rolls his eyes.

"I take college classes alongside my AP schedule. You're not the smartest one Mrs Lincoln has ever saved… I am."

Saved…

 _Saved…_

I take a deep breath and stop skirting around the fucking edges.

"You think Mrs Lincoln has saved you?"

He sneers.

"I know she has."

I nod slowly, wondering privately if I should call the cops right here and now.

I decide against it.

"And why did you need saving?"

He stands abruptly and shakes his head, glaring down at me with panic poorly hidden behind his eyes. His entire body tenses and he pushes his hair aggressively out of his eyes. My heart, what little remains, breaks in half for this… clearly tortured, hopelessly and understandably deluded, child. Anger ripples through me as I watch Elena's latest path of destruction pace up and down my living room floor.

One woman… so many victims… so much pain…

"We're not here to discuss me," Ethan eventually snaps. "We're here to talk about you and what you're doing to Mrs Lincoln. Why are you trying to ruin her life? All she did was help you, teach you… guide you into being the fucking millionaire you are today. Are you jealous? Is that it? That you're too old now, too tired… that she has someone else in her life… that she has _me?"_

Vomit threatens to escape me.

I swallow the burning acid with difficulty, but he's not done.

"You don't understand the ramifications of your actions, do you? You don't care about the lives you're ruining. You or your puffed-up doctor friend. Do _either_ of you really think you'd be where you are in life right now if she hadn't dragged you up? You're a business ballbuster and he's a medical miracle… but neither of those professions are where either of you should have ended up, and you know it. And this is how you repay her… by smearing her all over the national press?"

His thin chest is heaving with the effort of his sniping monologue.

I have to work really fucking hard to stay calm.

"Ethan… if you think that Matthew and I had to be dragged up by Mrs Lincoln, that we had to be helped… why do _you_ have to be dragged up and helped? You're clearly a very clever kid, you come from money, you go to one of the best schools in the country. What can she do for you that your parents can't? How is she _helping_ you?"

He looks surprised by the question.

"You grew up a few houses down from me… why would you need to ask that?"

I raise a brow.

"Humor me."

He glowers for a moment but sighs in concession.

"My parents are very successful, very wealthy and very concerned with public image. My mother is on all the right boards and my father knows all the right people. They have two children. My brother, Cameron, their oldest and the apple of their eye… the star medical resident at one of the best hospitals in the country. And then there's me, their youngest, the fuck-up come screw-up. The one that doesn't fit into their cookie-cutter lifestyle. The one that doesn't appreciate the bullshit world they force me to live in… the one they never wanted in the first place but had to have because they're good Roman Catholics that don't believe in abortion…"

He looks away and takes a deep breath.

"Mrs Lincoln sees me for who I am… she pays attention to me… teaches me, shows me how to control my anger, to channel it into making something of myself…"

A cold sense of dread seeps into my gut as I ask the question I know the answer to.

"Does she teach you in The Classroom?"

He swivels his eyes to look me square in the face.

"You know she does. It's where she taught you, isn't it?"

I have never really imagined Elena in prison before. It's always been this abstract, out there concept. But now… the image of her locked up with the worst offenders America has to offer consumes me. Pedos don't do well in prison, especially female prison. I will pull every fucking string I have, grease whatever palm needs to be greased… to ensure that bitch from hell doesn't spend a moment in protective custody, or have the truth about her reason of incarceration hidden or lied about.

I hope they fucking eat her alive.

"No, Ethan… she molested and abused me in there. Just like she's molesting and abusing you. She's not teaching you, she's not helping you and she really doesn't care about you. She's sick, Ethan, she's very, very sick. You and I, Matthew and I… we're just the tip of the iceberg. None of us are or were _special_ to her… none of us are or were _unique._ We were all just troubled kids that were available to her. Whether it be, in your case, because your family life isn't all that great. Or in my case, because my early childhood was traumatic. She finds a way in. Finds kids that are struggling, vulnerable, and uses them to her own twisted end…"

I stand and hold up my hands in a show of peacefulness as he backs away.

"I know you don't want to hear this. That you genuinely think all the things she's told you are true. That you owe everything to her, that you cannot be anything without her… that your life will implode if she isn't in it. But they're not, Ethan, none of those things are true. I know, believe me… I know. You're what… fifteen, sixteen? And she's in her fifties… her _fifties,_ Ethan, a grown woman. You know deep down inside you that it's wrong. You know deep down inside you that the things she does to you are wrong. You know deep down inside you that the lies she manipulates you into telling are wrong…"

I hold my breath as he looks at me with a rapidly whitening face.

"I knew deep down inside me that it was wrong, but I didn't do anything about it. Not until now, now until I was a grown man myself. But it doesn't have to be that way for you. You can be braver than I was, Ethan. You can save yourself. She doesn't save you, _you_ save _you._ And if you can't see it as saving yourself… imagine you had a younger brother, a kid brother that you looked out for since he was born. And now imagine him in The Classroom. Imagine him hearing all the lies she would whisper to him, imagine him believing all the sickness she would feed him. Imagine it all and then ask yourself this… is she helping you or is she destroying you?"

His face drains of all color and I know I've hit a mark.

A sick, perverted mark… but a necessary mark.

And as he whitens, as this child panics in my midst, it hits me.

And I'm compelled to say it.

"I'm so sorry, Ethan. I'm so sorry."

He splutters over his words somewhat. Gone is the veneer of the cocky, highly intelligent teenager and in his stead is a groomed, abused boy that doesn't know who to trust or what to believe.

"Sorry for what?"

I hate physical contact. No reason to ask Flynn why, even I can figure it out. But… it's like someone else has control of my body. It's like someone else is calling the shots and moving my arm upwards so that my hand rests gently on this poor kid's shoulder. He doesn't jerk it off, he doesn't shy away… he just stands stock still as his already fucked up world takes another rotation into crazytown.

"I'm sorry that I let this happen to you, that I waited until now to speak up…"

He opens his mouth to answer me and I wait with bated breath.

But a ringtone that I don't recognize seizes the moment.

He roots his cell out and the two of us stare at the flashing ID without blinking.

 _Mrs Lincoln is calling…_

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

….

Today's recommendation is the amazing _Then, There Was You_ by Foreverdreamingx. This is an incredible story by an amazing girl/author and I would urge you all to check it out! You won't regret it. It's very different and very compelling.

As always, if you would like a little sneak peek of the next chapter leave a "sneak peek please" in a review and I'll PM you soon! If you're a guest, I can't PM you with a teaser unfortunately, you have to be a registered user!

Till next time,

Inks

…..


	20. Chapter 20

His jaw tightens, and he takes a sharp step back from me.

Her fucking name is imbedded in the pixels of Ethan's cell as it continues to wail in his hand. Frustration swells inside of me. Usually, I can hold my own in the most pressurised of situations and make the right call, ensuring the best outcome. But right now… I'm torn and I'm ashamed of myself, something I don't feel that often. Taylor, if he wants to keep his job, has been taping every word that has come out of mine and Ethan's mouth since he left the room. The kid answering the bitch troll would be damning evidence that not only is she a historic offender, but that she also has a kid under her sick thumb in the middle of the very trial where she's protesting her innocence.

It would be the nail in her coffin.

But, on the other hand, from experience… I know that every single interaction with the bitch scars her victim a little deeper. Every call, text and message sucks you in a little deeper to her perverted world. How can I justify allowing another scar on this kid's psyche to occur right in front of me just to serve my own ends?

I swallow.

I can't.

I won't.

"Ethan," I say loudly, but as calmly as I can. "Do not answer that call."

He shakes his head slightly, and a clammy sweat breaks out over his brow.

My stomach contracts.

She's still enforcing the _no missed calls allowed_ rule.

When your Elena's… property, you're to be available twenty-four-seven.

No exceptions.

He's terrified. Anger sizzles inside of me. Somehow, watching the fear I once felt cross the face of a child right in front of me knocks the wind out of my chest. But to him, the fear is normal. It was normal to me back then, too. I hold out my hand and try to keep my voice level.

"Ethan? Listen to me. You don't have to take that call. Nothing will happen to you if you don't… I promise you. I give you my word that she won't… that you won't be… give me the phone, Ethan. Just give me the phone."

He shakes his head frantically and takes another step back.

The phone rings one last time before it goes to voicemail.

Never taking his eyes off of me, Ethan answers it with shaking fingers and my heart plummets right through the floor, a wave of sickness pressing against the thin cage of my pursed lips.

"Yes, Mistress?"

His call volume is set to high and my ears are sharply keen.

"Where the _hell_ are you, boy?"

A soft hiss escapes me as I watch Ethan's eyes spark with fear. His slender fingers literally tremble, causing the phone to tremor in his grasp.

"I'm… I'm uhh…"

She doesn't know he's here.

And he sure as shit isn't supposed to _be_ here.

So he either has to lie to her… or tell her the truth and incur her wrath. Panic rips through his tall frame and it's clear as day that he doesn't know what the fuck to do. It's like looking in a mirror, one that shows you your past in HD clarity. I've been on the receiving end of that _where are you_ call and knowing that the truth would get me killed but a lie would also get me killed… just later, and more painfully.

"I'm just out for a walk," he lies lamely, and my eyes widen. "I needed to clear my head."

Christ.

Even the most devout of Monks could break their vow of silence to lie better than that.

She's going to know.

"Really?" I hear her purr, seeing the honey trap she's laying for this poor, fucked-up shadow of my younger self in high resolution. "Where are you, exactly? I'm out for a drive, also to clear my head and I could do with a little… company. I'll come pick you up."

I've never seen anyone so white that wasn't dead.

"Uhm… uhh… I actually-"

Fuck this.

This is _not_ happening. Not again… not to another kid, not in front of my face. This day has been insane since the crack of dawn, why not end it with wrestling a cell phone from the hands of a teenage victim of the bitch that ruined my life? Ethan struggles vigorously, but I'm faster and taller. His iPhone is in my clutches before he knows what's going on and holding him back as gently as possible, I bring the phone up to my ear with a hammering heart.

"Ethan? Are you listening to me? You know I do _not_ like to repeat myself."

Her snapping voice sends chills down my spine.

"Sure, Elena," I answer smoothly, "I know exactly how you feel about repetition… I'm looking at the repeat performance of your encore with me as we speak. How can we help you?"

I've never heard a silence scream before.

Ethan is stricken dumb and numb with terror and my heart breaks for him.

"Christian," she murmurs softly, in that velvety tone of confidence that tells me she's at her most dangerous. "I see you've met Ethan. He's… a confused boy, a troubled child. I've been assisting him with the knowledge and permission of his parents. I'm still a pretty good math tutor, and Ethan is far behind his age group in that area…"

She coughs delicately as I visualize the cogs of her brain turning and whirring.

Looking for a way out.

Not this time, you fucking bitch.

"Math tutoring, huh?" I counter grimly. "I'm pretty good at math myself, and I've worked through my fair share of tutors… none of whom tried to track me down in the middle of the night for a little _one-on-one_ session. Would you say you've grown more dedicated to your… servicing of America's youth over time, or have you always been this diligent in impressing yourself upon vulnerable children?"

Ethan whimpers at my side, his eyes begging me to shut the fuck up.

Sorry, kid.

"I suppose you think you have me by the balls," she snaps, her harsh tone seeping through, now that she's accepted her inability to talk her way out of this shitstorm. "But Ethan has a proven track record of mental instability. You both grew up in the same neighbourhood. Who's to say you haven't been brainwashing a vulnerable child to your own ends? Hmm? Who's to say _what_ you were spoon feeding him in your apartment, in the middle of the night?"

My hackles are instantly raised.

"How do you know he's in my apartment?"

Her laugh is short and harsh.

"I didn't, not until now. You never were able to pull one over on me."

Gnashing my teeth together, I force myself to keep calm and keep the bitch talking. It might be difficult, but cost is no object. I will pay whomever, whatever it takes to enhance the sound of this call to legible decibels that can be recorded and played back to a wide-eyed, scandalized jury. Ethan's gnawing his lip in terror, all traces of the haughty, arrogant teenager who burst into my apartment completely gone.

And in its place, a scared and traumatized kid.

Just like I was.

"Maybe not," I say softly, stroking her ego and hating myself for it, "But that doesn't explain how you could have been so stupid. You're on trial for your life and you're _still_ molesting the boy next door. You always preached about controlling one's instincts and yet, it would appear, you are a slave to yours. Funny how that turns out, isn't it?"

She inhales sharply.

 _Keep talking, keep talking… just keep her talking._

"Are you forgetting the plight of your darling brother?" she croons quietly, deploying her only weapon. The weapon that she doesn't know is a double agent. "As far as that jury is concerned, he and I are in a blissful and adult relationship. Marred only by the delusional obsessiveness of his troubled, mentally unstable brother. If you try and introduce Ethan into this shitstorm, you're just going to come off as even _more_ insane than you did today. And that's _if_ you get the boy to turn on me and…"

She laughs coldly.

"Let's face it, even _you_ were mine well into your adulthood."

The elevator door opens silently and my eyes swivel towards it. Ethan's mouth opens, and a roar prepares to rip itself from his throat as he sees a shocked Anastasia and Taylor inch into the room. Forcing myself to remember the greater good, I clap a hand over his mouth as Ana motions to keep Elena talking. Ethan wrenches himself from my grasp and she rushes to him as he opens his mouth to screech.

I don't know what she whispers to him.

I don't know how she does it.

But he falls silent under her words, looking at her with wide and fearful eyes.

With just the smallest flicker of instinctual trust.

"I didn't know what was happening to me when I was Ethan's age," I say slowly, "That's true. But then again, there was no one to help me when I was his age. No one to expose the truth about you, to show the world what you are… what you've done. That's not the case for him, it's not too late for him… you haven't wormed your way so completely into his life yet that you can't be cleansed from it. And you know it… which is why you're calling him in the middle of the night, just like you used to do to me… until you were safe in the knowledge that you didn't have to anymore… that I was a slave to you… mentally and physically…"

She remains silent for a moment.

Pondering.

"Christian, let's talk brass tacks, ok? You were annihilated in court today. Your family is a laughing stock, the Adams family looks more wholesome than the Greys right about now. There's no coming back from the show that your darling brother put on today. However, I am a reasonable woman and I'm willing to offer you a deal. Are you willing to listen to it?"

I glance towards Ana who by now, has a hand gently placed over Ethan's shoulders.

How the _hell_ did she manage that?

She nods vigorously, her meaning clear.

 _Play along._

"I'm listening," I say coldly, "You have two minutes."

"Then I'll get right down to it," she snaps. "Since you've come into your own as a _man,_ you seem to have developed a sanctimonious aversion to my brand of therapy. You misjudge me. You brand me with the same mark as a common, debased pedophile. But you're wrong. I care so much about my boys. I loved you all in my own way, each one more deeply than the one before him. You… in particular, you were my pride and my joy. But that's over now, I accept it. You've changed… not for the better, but changed nonetheless."

Although they're all visibly straining, I can tell the odd gathering of three in front of me can hear every word.

"So, I propose the following; I will give you my word that I will cease providing much needed help to the troubled young men of this city if you agree to tell that mousy haired little bitch of an ADA that you made this whole ordeal up. That you had a troubled infanthood and the resulting damage is deep and long lasting. She will have no choice but to bring your confession to the Judge and the case will be have to be thrown out. No matter what your fancy doctor friend might have to say. There could be ramifications for filing false reports and wasting court time, but a man like you knows the kind of people who can make that all go away."

She clears her throat as a pool of disgust curdles like soured milk in my gut.

I glance at Ana, hoping my question is written in my eyes.

Ethan's stunned, and terrified silence is as painful as anything else I have ever suffered.

She shakes her head slowly, no.

 _No…_

It's not enough.

Sprinting across the room, she rips a pad and pen from the telephone stand and scrawls a brief message in her neat cursive, dashing back across the room to shove it under my nose. Blinking, I read quickly and nod, taking a deep and contemplative breath.

 _Explicit. We need it to be explicit!_

"Elena," I say softly, in the tone I know she loves and hating myself for it. "It's late and my tolerance for beating around the bush and legal mumbo jumbo is in the minus fucking figures. I've got a kid in my apartment that reminds me so much of me that my head is spinning. I don't have the time or the inclination for word or mind games. I started this so that no one else would have to go through what I went through… but we both know that my status only serves to hinder due process, so… I need to be clear on what I may or may not be agreeing to…"

 _Keep it together, Grey. Keep it the hell together._

"Are you agreeing to stop flogging and fucking underage boys in return for my retraction and subsequent silence about your flogging and fucking of _me_?"

I inject just the right amount of open mindedness into my words.

"Because… that is something I _might_ be open to… if that's what you're offering."

She doesn't miss a beat, her tone a snarl of simmering anger.

"Yes, Christian, you ungrateful little shit… that is exactly what I'm offering."

Ana's vigorous nod and widening smile is all I need to see.

"Elena?"

Her sigh is as sanctimonious as her perversion is ingrained.

" _Yes?"_

I can't help it, I really can't help it, but I have no regrets.

"You might want to start learning how to top from the bottom. Immediately."

…

A/N: If you'd like a sneak peek of the next chapter just leave a "sneak peek please" in a review and I'll PM you shortly alongside sneak peeks for Return to Sender and Illusion, if you've asked for those ones!

Today's recommendation is My New Life by Rapunzelclayre! Check it out, you won't regret it!

Inks x

….


	21. Chapter 21

**_You might want to start learning how to top from the bottom. Immediately…_**

He hangs up.

He hangs _up_ as my mouth runs dry and my eyes narrow to slits on the night splattered road. What the fuck? What the _fuck?_ My heart starts to thump painfully as I see the trap I've fallen head over heels into. I know that boy. I godamned _raised_ that boy. Turned him into the man he is today. I know him, I know how his mind works… how devious he can be. Gripping the steering wheel so tight that the whites of my knuckles show, I close my eyes and force the panic down to the pit of my stomach where it belongs. I didn't want to do it, I wasn't going to do it…

But he's left me no choice.

McCallum answers on the third ring.

"Mrs Lincoln?"

His voice is wearied. He despises me, we both know it and we both pretend that we don't. I fear he sees the truth, sees through my cleverly crafted defences. He is the best that money can buy, he cares not for guilt or innocence. But people, all people, are kings on high when it comes to kids and their misconceptions of the different types of love out there. I loved Christian. I loved him so much that my heart nearly burst at the seams with adoration. But he turned on me. What could I do but defend myself? Who is McCallum to judge me?

He defends _murderers_ for fucks sake.

If I'm guilty of anything, its caring for the boys no one wants, the forgotten ones.

"McCallum, we have a problem."

The recounting of the devious little bastard's trickery doesn't take long. I choose my words carefully, concentrating on the inky blackness of the road in front of me to keep my cool. Betrayal simmers just below the surface, though. The image of that smug little tart, that _ADA Steele_ plague me. She's barely old enough to drink and there she is, with those perky twenty-something breasts and those high cheekbones, dragging my good name through the dirt in open court. She's good, even I have to admit that, McCallum too. She's a clever little bitch and she knows how to work a crowd.

But she'll never get another opportunity to smear me in front of that jury.

By the time I'm finished pulling out my wild card, court will be very much cancelled.

I finish my summation, ensuring McCallum knows just the type of asshole we're dealing with. I thought I could save Christian Grey. I thought I could rescue the gray-eyed beauty that fell into my lap like a neatly wrapped present. But he was too far damaged, I see that now. He was too far gone. His mother, that crack-addled whore, she ruined him. I patched him up as best I could, but the rot set in deep all those years ago and the result is the adult Christian, a thankless, two-faced bastard.

Well, he won't get the better of me.

Not _me._

McCallum doesn't answer me straight away. My teeth click together in anger. I don't have time for this shit. I don't have time for stunned pauses, for deep and contemplative thinking. I pay this fucker exorbitant rates for a quality service, I don't pay him to sit in silence like a fucking Monk when the tides are turning and I'm in danger of being hit square in the jaw with a bloody tsunami. I give him one more second and then let loose with a snarl down the phone, tearing the car around and turning it in the direction of his house.

For what I'm paying him, he won't fucking object.

"McCallum? Are you there? I don't have time for your stupid meditation right now, damnit! My life is falling apart. Look, I'm on the way to your place now. We need to think about what we're going to do, talk about it. I didn't want to play this card but he's left me no choice… it's up to you to figure out _how_ we can use it. I'll be there in twenty minutes, thirty tops and you better-"

"No."

His voice is low and slow but it might as well have been a bellow.

I blink into the night and remain stricken and silent for a moment. What the hell does he mean, no? No, _what?_ Steam is close to pouring out from my ears, flames are close to spitting from my eyes. It's the middle of the night and I need help, I need advice and this prick is telling me _no?_

I don't think so.

"What the hell do you _mean,_ no?" I snarl, increasing the pressure on the accelerator, pushing the car so hard and so fast that it groans underneath me. "McCallum, did you misunderstand me? He has me on tape, he has me on tape… saying things. Things that could be misconstrued, things that could be used to paint me as… something I am not. I'm sure that by now, Christian will have got in contact with that stuck-up little tart of an ADA and the two of them will have their little heads together, thinking of new ways to ruin my life. So, what the hell do you mean when you say _no?_ Have you forgotten how much I'm paying you?"

He doesn't answer straight away.

The silence stretches and stretches until it vibrates around me.

"You really did it, didn't you?"

The usual swagger in his tone is all but gone. The bounce and the sass, the quick wit and the sharp syllables are completely AWOL. In their stead… is a flat, monotonous tone of contempt. I can feel my irises dilate with pure, pulsating rage.

" _What?"_

This time, he doesn't hesitate.

"You really molested him and all the others? Christian, Matthew… this Ethan boy. You preyed on them all, didn't you? Lured them into your home and into your world, beat and abused them on a daily basis within mere minutes of their parents? I convinced myself that _innocent until proven guilty_ still meant something to me, because I saw dollar signs when you came to me. I saw them big and I saw them green. But I saw the truth in that kid's eyes, I saw the truth in ADA Steele's opening arguments… and I chose to ignore it. I was being paid and I was being paid handsomely… what did I care about the truth?"

I forget to breathe.

But he's not done.

"I'm a despicable man, Mrs Lincoln. I do and say terrible things, I defend the sickest and the cruellest people in this city, in this country. I do it because I like my lifestyle, I like to wine and dine in the nicest restaurants, court the prettiest girls that are young enough to be my daughters. I accept blood money, left right and centre and I don't lose a wink of sleep because of it. That is until… you. Now it's different. Now I see that the drug dealers and the racketeers, the gangs and the traffickers… they've got nothing on you. You've kept me up at night, you've taken away my luxury of self-appointed ignorance…"

His judgement shimmers in the night air around me.

"The things you've done, the debased and sickening things… the things I've read, the things I've heard… that I can never un-read or un-see, they haunt me. You took those boys when they were at their lowest ebb and you signed the death warrant of their childhoods. Then you sit in a crowded courtroom and label your victim a nutcase, an attention seeker. You create turmoil in his family, you tear them apart and this you do, all of it, with my counsel and my blessing…"

His voice takes on a hard hue.

"But not anymore. I am a cruel, empty, husk of a man. I am not a hero and I will more than likely die alone and miserable. But I will not die knowing that I helped you protest your innocence between the hours of nine to five and then waved you off to rape and abuse another innocent boy. I can't, I can't and I won't. I am coming off record as your counsel, Mrs Lincoln. I will no longer take your calls or appear on your behalf in court. Furthermore, and of this I doubt you are aware, but there are certain… lacunas in attorney-client privilege. I cannot divulge the crimes of your past as you have alluded to me, but I can and will divulge the crimes of the present… the crimes you're committing against Ethan. State law not only permits but _requires_ me to break confidentiality when I believe that there is a reasonable suspicion that my client is committing or will commit, a crime."

The air leaves my lungs.

The cars slows to a crawl on the now deserted road of blackness.

Not even a street lamp surrounds me.

The small, timid squeak I hear is one that I cannot recognise as being my own.

 _"What?"_

He doesn't miss a single beat.

"This is where we part ways, Mrs Lincoln," McCallum says slowly and clearly. "I am no longer your attorney and as soon as I conclude this call, which is recorded by the way, I will be contacting the Seattle P.D. with a view to reporting the current abuse of this boy, Ethan. I imagine it won't be hard to track him down. Regardless, in the matter of the State v Elena Lincoln… I am no longer an attorney of record. The wild card, as you call it, will be diffused. You need me for that and I refuse to be a party to it."

Air.

I have no air.

The car comes to a complete halt.

"Frank? _Frank,_ you can't _do_ this to me. What do you care about _morality?_ Is it the money? Do you want more money? Because I can get you more money, I can get you-"

He cuts me off.

"Goodbye, Mrs Lincoln."

The call disconnects and I am alone.

All alone.

…

A/N: If you'd like a sneak peek of the next chapter just leave a "sneak peek please" in a review and I'll PM you soon!

Today's recommendation is _Unexpected Everything by stargazer93._ This is yet another amazing story by an amazingly talented author and all round super human being! I absolutely implore you all to check it out, all her work is crazy, crazy good!

What's to become of Elena now? Find out, next time!

Inks x

…


	22. Chapter 22

I didn't sleep a wink last night.

The faces of Ethan's parents were made all the more haunting in the harsh glare of cop car lights and their blank expressions didn't leave the deepest, darkest corners of my brain all night. They couldn't believe their ears, they didn't want to. The kid wouldn't go home. Ana had to call the cops and social services to come to Escala and then make the difficult call to his mom and dad. I offered, of course, but she saw right through my shit and insisted she be the one.

I'm not familiar with this sensation of gratitude.

I think I like it.

It feels like a normal thing to feel.

It's seven am and I'm still not dressed. The car will be here for me at eight to take me back to that courtroom. Ana talked me through our options last night, diligently, but I didn't take in a single word. All I could think about was Ethan… about how… if I'd grown a pair sooner, Elena would never have been able to get close to him. She never would have been able to worm her way in to earn his trust and then turn around and abuse it. And because of my cowardice and shallow fucking concern about my _image,_ that kid will never be what he was meant to be. I don't care what the self-help books or the shrinks say. People like me, people like Ethan… we're never again whole.

Ever.

Time passes in a haze as I slouch off to shower and throw on a suit. Before I know it, I'm back at the kitchen counter and staring at the same stone-cold cup of coffee I've been eying for hours. A soft ping tells me that Taylor is on his way up in the freshly reprogrammed elevator. I can smell his aftershave as he steps off and walks quickly into my apartment. A small part of me feels guilty. After everything calmed down last night, I gave him the mother of all bollockings for allowing such a security breach. I shouldn't have been so hard on him and as I stand from the counter, I give him a rare smile.

From his answering look of concern, it did not have the intended effect.

"Mr Grey? Is everything alright?"

I need to learn how to smile without looking like a serial killer.

"Sure, let's get going. I don't want to sit in traffic today."

He looks like he's about to say something but thinks better of it and nods curtly instead, leading the way. The leather is cool to touch as I slide into the car on a very grey, shitty Seattle morning. I try and rack my brains to think about what Ana said was going to happen today, but it's just a blur. My brain has been full of nothing but Ethan and my own failures since last night. We're about half way there when my cell vibrates.

It's Ana.

"Hey, Ana. I'm about half way there and-"

"Christian."

I remember the day my birth mom died, the crack whore. I remember the sights, the smells and the sounds. I remember everything about that day. There was a funny feeling in my stomach and it wasn't the usual hunger. It was something else. Four-year-old me was too young to understand or interpret it. It wasn't a feeling that any four-year-old should have to understand or interpret.

Foreboding.

The sensation of something dooming and imminent.

The sensation is back.

"What is it?"

She hesitates. I haven't known Ana very long but if there's one thing I've learned from building my empire is that pressurised situations bind people, accelerates the bonding process. Ana doesn't hesitate. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up but for the first time in a long time, my fear and anticipation isn't for me… it's for her.

"Ana? Are you ok? What's happened?"

There.

Again.

The hesitation.

"Christian… where are you and who are you with?"

Usually I scoff at clichés. Look down on them as the ham-fisted attempts of the illiterate and poorly read to describe a time or a place. I'm not scoffing today. My blood literally chills at her question and time transforms into this weird and tangible mist, encasing Taylor and I in its long wispy fingers. There's something seriously wrong. My mind races to Ethan and my stomach churns. Let it be anything but that… please…

"I'm in the car with Taylor on the way to the courthouse."

"You need to turn around and go home. I'll meet you there when I can."

My mouth dries, and I see Taylor's eyes dart towards me in the rear-view mirror. Last night, Ana was practically buoyant about our chances. I didn't need to hear her words to sense her tone. She thought today was going to be a slam-dunk, the nail in Elena's coffin… and now she's telling me turn the car around and go home? The sight of Elena's smug face mouthing _I told you so, boy_ swims in my mind. What strings has she pulled now? What tricks is she playing? It takes a second for the words to come.

"What do you mean? Why would I do that? Has court been cancelled for today?"

Her voice is quiet.

"There is no court. Christian, please, go home. Go straight home and I will meet you there just as soon as I can. I'll call when I'm out front so that you'll know it's me. Tell Taylor to turn the car around and go straight back to Escala, please. I'll explain everything when I can."

"No," I snap, anger taking over my anxiety. "Ana, I'm not a fucking child and nor am I an imbecile. Something's happened and I think most people would agree that I have a right to know about it. _Now."_

She sighs.

Not out of anger or exasperation.

But sadness.

"Christian," she murmurs softly, "Please trust me. Please trust me and turn the car around. Don't come to the courthouse. Ask Taylor to bring you home. I promise that I'll be there within the hour. I give you my word."

Taylor slows the car.

He can sense something is seriously fucking wrong.

"Ana, you either tell me what's going on or far from asking Taylor to bring me home I'll get him to break every speed limit in the state to get me to that courthouse in record time."

I vaguely hear a string of expletives muttered under her breath.

"Christian, no-"

"Ana, I swear to God I'm not messing around here. Not after last night."

"You don't understand, this isn't something that you need to hear in a car and-"

"Tell me for fucks sake, Ana! Just tell me."

Silence that spreads like a smog singes the air. She doesn't say a fucking word and my anger turns to rage. Every moment of this ordeal hits me at once and a tidal wave of ire and fatigue drenches me. I need answers. I need clarity. It's the only way I can operate, the only way I can feel in control and she's withholding on me. Her silence suddenly feels like a personal affront, like another punch in the gut.

"Ana! Do you give a fucking shit about bringing Elena down or not?"

She swallows.

"That's just it, Christian…"

The car slows to a compete and final stop.

"Seattle P.D. attended to reports of an abandoned car at the side of the highway early this morning. When they arrived…"

She clears her throat and somehow, I know what she's going to say.

"Elena's gone, Christian. The cops… they think she's dead."

….

A/N: If you'd like a teaser, just ask in a review and I'll PM you soon! I'm not sure if PM's were working on the last round but they seem to be fine now.

Today's recommendation is Dark Desires by Foreverdreaming! It's a testament to her writing that I haven't even had a chance to read it yet and I'd still recommend it off the basis of her other stories! She's awesome and if you haven't checked her out… whaaat are you waiting for?

Inks x


	23. Chapter 23

**"Elena's gone, Christian. The cops… they think she's dead."**

When I was a kid, Elliot hated me. As in, he really hated me. He used to sneak into the bathroom and hold my head under water when I was having a bath, before quickly releasing me if he heard Grace approaching. I, of course, never said a word for fear of being kicked back to the curb. It stopped as soon as Elliot no longer viewed me as a threat, but even now, all these years later… I still remember the suffocating sensation as the hot, stinging water burned my ears, my nose and my throat.

That sensation is back now.

I feel like I'm back in that tub, unable to see or to draw breath.

Unable to _be._

Taylor's eyes flick to mine in concern in the rear-view mirror. He studies me for only a moment before deftly pulling the car over and cutting the engine, his gaze searching mine for any clue as to what's just happened. I stare back at him and try to find the words. But there are no words. There are no explanations or summations. When I was a teenager, Elena Lincoln was my entire world. She was my reason for getting up in the morning, my reason for making it through another day. The sun rose and set with her. Now, many years later and several heart-breaking realizations on, I should be wholeheartedly glad that she's apparently dead.

Right?

So… why aren't I?

Shame floods me as I realize that in the muddy pool of emotions bubbling like a quagmire inside of me, grief is the forerunner. Grief and sorrow. Did I do this? Did I push Elena into taking her own life? And if I did, why don't I feel victorious? Like I've snatched my life back right out of her cold, dying hands. A burning sensation coats my throat and breathing is suddenly difficult. Elena Lincoln is apparently no more, dead and gone… and all I can think about is how safe, loved and wanted she once made me feel. How, despite where it all ended, she was once the person I searched for in a crowded room.

My voice is thick and slow, but he doesn't question it.

"Back to Escala, Taylor. There will be no court session today."

He quirks a brow.

"May I ask-"

"No, you may not. Escala, now."

The car purrs underneath me as the divider slides up between us. My phone shrieks with Anastasia's unanswered calls followed swiftly by my mother's. Ana will have called and told the rest of the Grey family the exciting news, I'm sure. They will all be exultant, thrilled that the demon who stole their son's innocence, their brother's _purity,_ is no longer breathing the same air as they. I should be thrilled, too. Intellectually, I know that. Logically, I believe it. Emotionally… I'm anything but.

As the sights and sounds of Seattle whip by in a haze, my dazed mind wanders…

 _I'm fifteen and I've just been expelled from my third school…_

Blood trickles down from my right nostril as Carrick shoots me a death glare. Grace takes a seat beside him on the sofa opposite me, wearing a different mask of rage. Hers is coated in disappointment whereas Carrick, being the shrewd lawyer that he is, knows expectations are the root of all misery. I see her eyes take in my torn private school uniform and I see his take in my unrepentant as fuck expression and feel… nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

No guilt, remorse, nada. Zilch.

"What happened, Christian?" Grace says quietly. "What was it this time?"

Carrick shoots her an incredulous look; his silent meaning clear.

 _What does it matter what happened? It's his fault, whatever it was._

I shrug and stare directly over their heads. Am I going to tell them that the reason I'm sitting here with a torn shirt and a bloodied nose is because that freakshow Nelson called Grace a barren whore and Carrick a mental defect on the basis that _they_ chose someone like _me_ to enter their family. Nope. I'm sure as shit not. They're good people and they don't need to know what the rich neighbors _really_ think about their choice of children.

"Is that all you're doing to do?" Carrick explodes. "Sit there and _shrug?"_

Anger sparks through me as I turn to him, lock into his gaze and _shrug._

He stands abruptly, and, in another lifetime, I would've shied away thinking he was going to sock me one. But Carrick has never, despite all the provocations, laid a hand on me. He throws one despairing look down at Grace before turning on his heel and stalking off to the kitchen murmuring darkly under his breath all the while, his enunciation as always, clear as fuck.

 _Military school._

Grace's eyes flood with something unknown to me as she stares silently in my direction before two things happen simultaneously. Carrick drops the coffee pot in the kitchen, shrieking as a combination of scalding hot coffee and sharp shards of glass lacerate his skin and the doorbell rings. Dr Trevelyan-Grey speeds to the kitchen barking at me to open the door. I guess I should be worried about Carrick, but his threat of military school is still too raw. Scowling, I slouch over to the door and fling it open, blinking as I took in the perfect-as-always frame of Mrs Elena Lincoln, Grace's friend and confidant.

She smiles at me with those rouge red lips that fascinate me.

"Hello, Christian. Is your mom around?"

I stare at her ample breasts for a minute before gesturing towards the kitchen. She sweeps past me in a cloud of Coco Chanel and disappears through the open doors. Muffled voices wafted out of the kitchen for an eternity as I threw myself back down on the sofa knowing full well I wasn't excused. After another lifetime, the door rattled, and Elena stalks out and instead of her usual soft smile in my direction, she shoots me a glare to rival Carrick's.

"Christian, your parents need some alone time to discus what they're going to do with you. You and I are going to go and get some dinner to allow them to do just that. Come."

I open my mouth to protest but her hand suddenly closes around my upper arm.

"I am not your mother, Christian Grey. You do _not_ want to give _me_ any backtalk."

Fifty minutes later and I'm swallowing down a strawberry shake, staring blankly at the tablecloth in front me, feeling awkward as fuck. I can feel Elena's gaze on me and I look up slowly, wondering what she was thinking. She say's nothing for a second before sighing and quickly squeezing her hand in mind.

"I think I know a way to help you, Christian."

I blink.

"Help me how? With what?"

A glint shines in her eye as she stares at me.

"Help you with your outrageous behaviour."

I roll my eyes.

This time, when she squeezes my hand, it hurts like _hell._

"Is it good manners to roll your eyes, Christian?"

I gasp somewhat under her biting grasp and squirm in my seat. Before I can answer, she removes her hand and the glint in her eyes is gone. She shakes her head slightly, as if having a conversation with herself and confusion prickles inside of me. She halts a passing waitress and asks for the check before murmuring under her breath. I want to ask her what she means, but I don't have the balls and so I lay awake that night, replaying her mutterings to myself over and over again.

 _"One session in The Classroom… just one. For his own good…"_

"Mr Grey?"

 _… "Mr Grey?"_

I snap back to the present and realize we're in Escala's garage and Taylor is staring at me in concern. The divider is down, and I didn't even notice. Clearing my throat, I get my shit together and rub at my temples. I don't what I'm supposed to do. I always know what I'm supposed to do, and the converse is unnerving as fuck. I need to be alone. I know that much.

"Take the rest of the day off and take Mrs Jones somewhere nice," I instruct brusquely. "I don't want to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Liaise with Andrea and make sure there are no callers or calls. Is that understood, Taylor? _No_ callers. _No_ calls. You hear me?"

He blinks at me vehemence but judges the situation correctly.

"Consider it done, Mr Grey."

I don't know how I got into my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I collapse at the kitchen counter and pour myself a stiff Armagnac. I've always been alone in my life. I know no other existence and yet, as I sit here, a sense of loneliness so acute that it's like a branding hot iron singes me. Aside from my mother, father, sister and brother… there isn't a single person in the world who cares about me, or I about them.

The thought depresses me.

That's new.

I turn my cell off at another of Anastasia's repeated calls. My thoughts turn to Ethan and sorrow for him smacks me. I put myself in my position and imagine losing Elena at his age. It would've, rightly or wrongly, killed me. I should call him. Would that be weird? To call him. It probably would. His parents, useless as they seem to be, should have it under control. Matthew enters my mind, but I don't make any effort to call him either.

I just sit still, frozen in time.

Mourning the fact that I appear to be in mourning.

Sickness upon sickness upon sickness.

I'm still nursing my Armagnac when the beeping starts. Anger burns me. I fucking _told_ Taylor. But then I realize that my phone's still off and it obviously isn't the landline. The beeping continue and it's an old, jaded monophonic sort of alert tone. My eyes fall to a drawer on the other side of the kitchen. The mess drawer. The place where Mrs Jones stores all the things that she isn't sure are junk or not. Crossing the room, I open it and see the cause of the beeping and blink down at it stupidly.

It's an old pager of mine.

One that Carrick got me as a joke, many years ago.

Only a few people have the number, and no one would ever think to use it.

The message glares up at me.

 _1324 Broad Street._

 _Fifteen minutes._

What the fuck?

I don't know why, but I'm grateful for the mystery. Grateful for the distraction. I grab my keys and ignore my base instincts that warn me of danger. The roads are busy with afternoon traffic as I drive mindlessly along, the SatNav guiding me without issue. On any other day, I wouldn't dream of answering a nameless, faceless summons to an unknown location for an unknown reason but today is not just another day. Today is the day that the woman I know was my abuser has died and today is the day that I realize for the first time that I may never be able to fully distinguish my abuser from my saviour.

Ever.

1324 Broad Street is a solid thirty-five-minute drive and I slow the car down upon arrival with a mind blanker than when I started. I'm outside a dilapidated, run-down factory that quite clearly ceased production a long time ago. I kill the engine and step out in the afternoon air. Unease prickles me as I realize the stupidity of my actions. Sometimes, I forget that I'm a fucking billionaire in the making and billionaires in the making shouldn't, as a general rule of thumb, follow anonymous bread crumbs.

There's no one else around.

This is the proverbial wrong side of town.

One that I've never frequented, nor would ever want to.

I'm just about to turn around and leave, coming to my fucking senses, when a stirring in my peripheral vision halts me. A rustling sound hits my ears. Whirling around, I strain my eyes against the glaring sunlight, searching for the source. I see nothing but I'm suddenly uncomfortable, highly so. My hand is on the door handle when I hear it again. I don't have the time to turn around this time when the voice rings softly out.

"Hello, Christian."

Pivoting slowly, I feel the bottom of my stomach drop out.

"Hello, Elena."

She smiles at me with a weird, defeated sadness.

"I knew the intrigue would get you here. Did you think I was dead?"

She pales slightly, and I notice a soiled bandage on her arm.

"I guess I am, in a way. Inside."

I swallow, shock kicking my ass.

"What do you want, Elena?"

She tilts her head at me and takes a deep breath.

"I want this all to be over, Christian. I want to be happy again."

I raise a brow, my voice cold.

"So, you faked your death and now you're gonna what? Kill me? Are you that fucking insane?"

She looks at me, wounded and shocked.

"Kill you?" she whispers, "How could you say such a thing? Believe such a thing? I just _told_ you, I want to be happy again. Happy in a way that I haven't been in a long, long time."

I stare at her.

"How do you intend upon bringing that about?"

She grins.

"I'm dead, Christian. Don't you see? I'm dead. I'm free. I can do whatever I want, be whoever I want. Start over in a new place. Reinvent myself."

She takes a deep breath.

"That's why I called you here, not because I'm insane or homicidal."

Her hand reaches for mine and I baulk instinctively, backing away

"I called you here because we can _both_ be free. We can both be free of our past. We can both reinvent ourselves and remove ourselves from all this ugliness, all this _miscomprehension."_

She smiles at me almost adoringly and I know deep down inside that it was just shock I felt at her supposed death. What I feel now… is regret. Regret that she isn't actually dead.

"Run away with me, Christian," she whispers, "Run away with me."

My mouth falls open, but she's not done.

"We could be together. Like we once were."

A tear forms in her eyes.

"Like we were always meant to be."

…..

I know I've been MIA and I thank all those who sent me PMs wondering if I'm ok. RL's just been full on recently, that's all. I hope to get into more regular updates soon. Thanks for your patience.

Inks x


	24. Chapter 24

For a split second, I have no idea where the maniacal laugher is coming from.

But it's all me. It's coming from me. My stomach howls with the exertion of my mirth. I clutch at it, scrabbling to contain the joyless laughter that bursts from my mouth like the most scalding, rancid vomit. I haven't laughed like this in years, in years and years and yet there isn't a note of happiness in the peals as they bounce off the stone flagged walls. She watches me with narrowing eyes as the threadbare strings keeping my mind together splinter down to their last fibre.

"Christian-"

"Wait, wait, wait," I splutter, outstretching my hand to keep her at bay. "Let me get this straight in my head. Let me get this masterpiece of yours wrapped around my brain." I wipe a shaking hand across my mouth and straighten up with a painful emptiness spreading inside of me. "You lied and cheated your way through your trial to a point where even you couldn't see a way out. So, in your infinite wisdom, you abscond to fulfil some _deranged_ fucking happily-ever-after plan that involves some moronic attempt to fake your own death so that you and I can skip happily off into the sunset? Have I got that right? Have I?"

She pales and sidesteps the jabs as only she could.

"In essence," she mutters quietly, "Yes."

It's too much. It's all just too fucking _much._ A fatigue I've never known before descends. It weighs my legs down to the core of the earth, it drags my arms down to eternity. I see her through the fog that hovers over my eyes, my cognitive function slowed to nothingness. The spin cycle of my life roars in my ears. The pitiful cries of a four-year-old Christian Grey intermingle with the pitiful, defeated moans of the grown prodigy. Sinking to the ground, the fibre that had been straining and stretching to keep me sane and whole finally, mercifully breaks.

Flynn warned me about this.

Warned me that this could happen, that the dam I built brick by brick could burst.

And he was right, he was so fucking right.

Her hand with its fire engine red claws suddenly lands on my shoulder, clutching me with the strength that she has so skilfully hid and used all these years. A shudder rips through me, revulsion and reverence in equal measure. The product of unresolved trauma, the end result of a life that was only ever meant to be blemished and brutalized. The fatigue pulls me further down to the ground, the cold gravel bruising my knees without a single splinter of pain making its way into my brain. The temptation is so close. The aching need for release. She could always take my pain away.

Like this.

By my kneeling before.

Christian, the submissive.

The jowls of my jaw slacken as the crushing tiredness entrenches me further, quickening like a quagmire snaffling up its prey. I try and jerk her hand off of my shoulder, Ethan's pale face my only source of protest. Flynn's voice screams at me inside my head, but it's like he's on one side of a river and I'm on the other, the gushing, gurgling stream of water drowning out his voice. I feel her pulse quicken with exhilaration, with the hint of promise. I sag. My chest deflates. I can go no further. I can go no further with this ordeal, with life. My entire being has been one torture after the other, and I need respite.

I need to drink from the poison chalice.

I need to numb the pain.

Maybe all we were was all we were ever meant to be.

I've fought and battled my way to where I am, but I don't have it in my anymore. This fight with Elena, it's shown me that. I've gone full circle. At the outset of this trial, everything was so clear. There would be a structured, strategic legal battle to bring Elena to justice. I was foolish to believe such a thing was possible. I was naïve to believe she would meekly shuffle towards to gallows. Elena and I, for better or for worse, are similar in some regards.

She shares my fight.

And she was never going to go down without bringing me with her.

She promised me that.

And she's delivered.

I am utterly, irrevocably and without hope of reprieve, broken.

I'm fucking broken.

I'm on the edge of bliss. One more second is all it will take for my rational mind to succumb to my deepest, darkest depravations. The yearn for release is too strong, her hand is too present, my psyche too wounded. I am going to surrender, I feel it as surely as I feel the ground beneath my knees. The wind whistles between her teeth as she mewls in a hot breath that somehow tickles the back of my neck.

"Yes, Christian," she hisses, "You know what you need. You've always known."

Her hand squeezes my shoulder tighter and tighter still.

"Do it," she murmurs, "Allow it. Permit it. Save yourself through surrender."

Her words bring me back, reeling through the years. Tugs back the curtain to show me a sneak peek of the serenity that lies beyond. One simple conscious decision is all it will take. Gaining control through surrendering free will; the ultimate mind fuck. A deep breath sears its way through my lungs tearing at the soft tissue like hot ash. My eyes finally close and the rigidity of my torso deflates like a pierced balloon in the summer sunshine. She's waiting for the word and as my lips piteously form around it, living in the split-second before I surrender to the unthinkable; all hell breaks loose.

The world erupts into a haze of screeching tires and harried voices.

The hand leaves me shoulder.

Disorientated, as if a spell had been broken, I look up blinkingly. My mind struggles to keep up as the intoxicant of pain and pain relief still surges within me. But then the fog shifts, and the hold is broken, snapped clean like a broken leg. Elena is snarling in Taylor's steely grasp. She looks at Ana with such venom that my stomach lurches painfully. Anastasia stares at me on my knees and comprehension dawns like a summer's morning in her eyes. She looks from me to Elena slowly, like a chess master contemplating their next move.

She moves slowly towards a seething, spitting Elena and regards her silently for a moment.

"The police are on their way, Elena", she says softly, the coldness of her voice a terrifying contrast to the fire in her eyes. "The police are on their way and I shall do whatever it takes to ensure that this shithole we currently stand in is the last piece of non-prison property you will ever see. I will do whatever it takes to ensure that the damage you have inflicted on Christian, on Ethan, on Matthew… on them all, is repaid ten times over. We were the underdogs in this case, but you're a scheming little bitch and scheming little bitches always trip themselves up in the end. You've signed your own death warrant with this stunt. You're finished. They're going to throw away the key, you miserable piece of shit."

She looks to Taylor and he raises a brow.

"Miss Steele?"

"Please, Taylor, take her to wait by the car. Take her to wait by the car before I wrap my hands around her godforsaken neck and save the State some money in the process."

He doesn't hesitate, and Elena's series of shrieked expletives drift away.

I am still on my knees, my breath ragged, my mind shredded beyond repair.

Blue eyes blink directly into mine.

"Christian?"

Her voice is slow and smooth now, soft and soothing.

"Christian? Can you stand?"

A small hand replaces Elena's hold on my shoulder and the warmth is instantaneous. It's like an injection of hope, of spring and summer intertwined as one. My heart races at the stimulant, my eyes slowly swivelling up to meet hers.

My voice is thick, clumsy even.

"Ana?"

Her small hand tightens around my shoulder.

"It's me. It's me, Christian. You're alright now, you're okay."

I shake my head, shame coursing through me. I don't have the stomach for the pretence, for the CEO-esque persona. I don't have the gall or the neck for bare faced lies and deceit. I speak to the ground, embarrassment so intense flooding my insides that I may drown and have done with it. My voice is no more than a whisper.

"I was going to submit to her, like I used to all those years ago. I wanted to make the pain stop, I wanted… to feel nothing. To be empty. After all this, after everything you've done with the trial… I was going to go back to her, I was going to surrender."

She looks at me silently, crouched at my eye level.

Regarding me.

"Addiction is a complicated thing," she says suddenly, quietly. "Most people think addiction is either a dependency on booze or drugs. But it's far more complicated than that. Addiction is escapism and it comes in hundreds of forms. Your addiction, for many years, was Elena. And now you're fighting your addiction, you're trying to get clean. When people are trying to get clean, their addictions are at their most tempting, most unyielding. You were going to submit to Elena to feed your addiction and that, as painful to understand as it may be, is okay. You're in recovery, Christian and it's a long road. You don't get to beat yourself up about taking the wrong turn off every now and then. You get to remind yourself why you started walking the road in the first place."

She stands lithely and extends her hand to me.

"You think you can stand up and walk this road with me, Christian?"

My body moves independently of my brain. My mind is so disconnected I don't even think to ask the most basic question of how did she and Taylor know when and where to find me. Instead, I act on pure instinct and slip my hand into hers. What I've known for a while shimmers in front of my as I stare down into her perfect, pure face. It makes no sense, it's unwise in the extreme and an area unknown to me. But as she slowly pulls me away from the scene of my shame and towards the blue and red lights that being to shine in the distance, I know it in my heart to be true.

I, Christian Grey, have fallen head over heels in love with Anastasia Steele.

Fuck.

….

Hey guys. Like I said before, I've been going through some stuff and that hasn't changed so I don't know when/what I'll update again but I felt like writing tonight for the first time in a long time and this is the result!

Inks x


	25. Chapter 25

Space.

That's all I needed, some space, no more and no less. Far away from her outrageously blue eyes I am myself again, I am in control. Grabbing some Excedrin for the pounding headache beginning behind my eyes, I slouch off towards the kitchen for a tall glass of cold water. Trying to avoid alcohol is the first port of call in feeling like myself again. Escala is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, every light in the place is burning the midnight oil. The inkiness of the outside night is a stark contrast to my glass lightbulb shining high above a sleeping city.

Somehow… I can't bear to be in the darkness right now.

Paging Dr Flynn.

These endless fucking nights are beginning to get to me. I haven't slept a solid five hours in what feels like forever. My irritability is getting worse and Taylor is manfully bearing the brunt of it. If I don't sleep soon, I'll crash. I know it, but I refuse to take sleeping tablets, not after the Harvard incident… no, never. My fingers hover over the keys of my piano but my private love of the ivories is gone. My love, what little I am capable of, is all gone.

Perhaps never to return.

Tomorrow's the day, the next segment of the Christian Grey shitshow that I can't press pause on. If I were a more forgiving man, I'd have to admire Elena's craft. After the macabre faking-her-own-death stunt, she knew one of two things was going to happen and either one of them would serve her cause. One, I'd behave like the snivelling coward I am and bend down to her, cow to her inexplicable power over me and she and I would sail off into the perverted sunset. No charges, no jailtime, nothing except complete ownership over me. Just what she always wanted. Or, if she didn't get that, she'd get the next best thing.

An insanity plea so pretty it might as well come with a pink bow attached to it.

From the depths of her padded cell at the relatively comfortable state psychiatric hospital, Elena's managed to get herself new representation. I don't know how even she managed to alienate that sleaze ball McCallum, but he was last seen running for the hills and hasn't returned since. Her new shark in a suit is a Miss Glenda Belling. At some fifteen to twenty years Anastasia's senior and the Managing Partner of her own top tier firm, she's a force to be reckoned with.

I knew it the moment I saw Ana's pupils dilate with apprehension at our first introduction.

But she handled herself incredibly well. Professional to the end and with enough confidence to prove she was a player without making an arrogant ass of herself. Man, her ass… _damn it, for fuck's sake Grey, focus_. I fuck myself down on the sofa with a groan. This is not me. This has never been me. I have never once in my life lusted after the good girl, the wholesome girl. The kind of girl Grace and Carrick would part with a kidney each for if it meant I had her on my arm.

But that's not me.

I don't do that. I don't do the Anastasia Steele's of this world. I do the Suzannah's and the Leila's. The girls that were probably labelled as being _at risk_ in their youth. And even then, my obsession is skin and ego deep. They were good fucks and even better ego trips. I allow, against my better judgement, the image of a naked and bowed Anastasia at my feet. The image doesn't last long, doesn't even get the chance to get me hard.

Anastasia will never bow at my feet.

The obnoxiously bright LED clock beside me announces the time as three am. I must be washed, dressed and presentable at six thirty. Taylor will then arrive to chauffer me to Elena's capacity hearing. It'll be the nightmare it sounds like, that much I'm sure of. The place will be heaving with lawyers and shrinks, each assured in their opinion, each ready and waiting to say whatever will garner them the biggest pay check. And these people, these inane people, will decide whether or not Elena can continue to stand trial and face a multitude of additional charges or whether she's too fucking nutty to understand the proceedings. Basically, they're going to decide whether everything I've been through has been completely and utterly fucking pointless.

Ethan wanted to be there but thankfully his parents wouldn't hear of it.

Matthew will be there, tough… I feel my brow knit together as I think of him. It's fucked up and wrong on so many levels, but I still can't relax around him or fully trust him. He called to Escala, unannounced, not long after Elena's latest stunt with beers and a sympathetic grimace on his face. Staring moodily out at the black sky, I still cannot understand why I reacted like I did. He was, on the face of it anyway, just trying to be… _nice._

There was no need to slam the door in his face.

I know that. I knew it when I was slamming said door in said face and yet I couldn't help it. I was furious, boiling with a seething anger that has fuck all basis in rationality. I think it was the sympathetic _I understand you, bro_ fucking look in his eyes. He doesn't understand shit. Sure, he was Elena's victim as well. I don't dispute it. But… shit, I don't know. It's different. It was different for me than it was for him. He was a victim of Elena's journey, sure…

But I was always her final destination.

A niggling explanation of my anger snips away in the corners of my brain, but I brush it away. It doesn't paint me in a good light. Wishing that _he_ was her final destination and not _me_ … isn't exactly a winning personality trait. All my life I have despised the whining pricks who weep into their beers with shrieks of _why me, why not somebody else, anybody else…_

I guess I can add hypocrisy to my winning list of charming attributes.

Fuck.

I'll talk to him tomorrow, try and explain. He's so annoyingly understanding he'll probably offer to blow me for my troubles. _Jesus Christ, Grey! The fuck is your problem?_ Gripping a handful of my hair and pulling it tightly, I wish I knew. I really wish I knew. I'd love nothing more than to have a clear, one-line answer as to what I'm feeling right now. The feelings I'm having, the onslaught of them, their never-ending, overwhelming presence experienced all the live long day. Google has already given me one, but it's bullshit. The clock ticks slowly forward whilst I'm debunking WebMD's wisdom. By the time six thirty rolls around and the sun is streaming in the window, I have effectively diagnosed myself as having the complete _opposite_ of what that shitshow of a site has labelled me with.

Because there's no way I'm clinically depressed…

I can't be.

….

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

Flynn looks up on my approach with something indecipherable in his eyes.

Taking my usual seat with ramrod stiffness, I realize its pity, and if I were a man weak enough to blush, my cheeks would be as red as a submissive ass. But I'm not, so they're not and I meet his gaze with faux indifference. Flynn likes to do this thing where he lets an uncomfortable silence spiral and spiral until I can't bear it any longer. My lips press firmly together as he raises a delicate brow. Today, I have resolved, I am not offering anything off my own bat. He's the fucking therapist. It's his job to draw and guide the conversation. I press my lips tighter together as a small frown peppers at his brow.

For good measure, I clench my toned ass cheeks together, too.

I am bulletproof.

I have two hours to be at the courthouse. Judges, apparently, don't keep office hours. And here I am, wasting the last one hundred and twenty minutes of marred peace in my life with this silent prick across from me. The heavy lack of conversation is beginning to unnerve me and the bastard knows it, smiling slightly with those irritatingly sculpted lips of his. Damn the man to hell and his bogus profession, too. I need him to answer the questions that I am in no way going to ask him and he can't even do that!

Fucking charlatan.

He eventually breaks and I grin inwardly like a petulant boy. The last few weeks have been so heinous that I have to get my kicks wherever I can get them... whatever it takes to keep the terrifying fog of nothingness from crashing over my head, again and again. I've always admired Flynn's voice. It's got this soothing undercurrent to it, like a babbling brook that you could sit beside mindlessly for hours. It's washing over me now and it feels like a repellant, a protective shield against the cloud that hangs over my head.

"How are you, Christian?"

Well, I'm fucking tickedyboo, aren't I? Why wouldn't I be? Idiot.

My glare answers him and he clears his throat, trying another tack.

"Your trial recommences today, doesn't it? Why don't you tell me a little bit about what's going on with it?"

My fingers intertwine jerkily and I hear my snapping voice reverberate around the comfortable room before I know what's hit me.

"Well, doc, it all started off well. Really well. My personal life was splashed across every single rag that this great nation has to offer and my credibility in the outside world is shot to all manner of hell. We were making headway with the jury though, isn't that great? What it's all about really, isn't it? Anastasia was doing an amazing job, decimating Elena's shitty defense and it was all plain sailing with Matthew along for the ride and then... what then? Oh yes, Elena absconded and faked her own death all in an attempt to seduce me into going on the proverbial run with her and maybe popping out a couple of webbed toed kids for good measure. I nearly said yes, of course, who wouldn't? But Anastasia and the cops arrived just in the nick of time to bring me to my senses. Isn't it all _terribly_ exciting?"

His eyes widen as I intake a deep, steadying breath.

I hadn't meant to say a single word of what I just said... I feel like a burst dam, spilling my thoughts everywhere and anywhere like a frothy, dissipating monster. Flynn tilts his head slightly, silently appraising me with that look of his and I feel my ass cheeks deflate like two pancakes beneath me.

Even my ass is disappointed in me.

He chews on my words for a little longer before finally sitting forward in his chair, pen poised and at the ready...

"Anastasia?"

I blink.

"What?"

"Anastasia. You said _Anastasia_ has been doing a good job. Anastasia. Not Miss Steele?"

I gawp.

"You really want to _reprimand_ me on my manners right now, doc?"

He shakes his head and stares at me so intently I cross my legs. I feel fucking violated. He might as well waltz over here with that swagger of his and give me a fucking prostate. Anger suddenly gurgles like heartburn within me. Here I am, telling this joke of a man all about my legal woes and all he wants to talk about is pretty names.

Anastasia really _is_ a very pretty name.

Fuck me, what am I becoming?

"You refer, and have always done so, to everyone in your employ as Mr or Ms. Never a first name basis, never. At the start of this trial when you were telling me all about the appointment of Miss Steele, you were not on first name terms and now you are. I think that's interesting. Does she call you Christian?"

My eyes bulge like a toad with an electric prod up its ass.

"No," I blurt out angrily, "She likes it when I call her fucking mommy, doc. What do you think?"

The smile is back. God, I'd love to rip that smile off his smug face and shove it where the sun...

"I think, Christian," he murmurs softly, "that it is highly unusual for a man so encumbered and dependent on structure such as yourself to suddenly diverge from your own customs. You rarely refer even to your mother, whom I know you love very much, by her given name. You must understand that I find it very curious that Miss Steele has managed, somehow, to remove this inhibition so rapidly?"

I blink.

"It was a slip of the tongue. No more, no less. I shall address Miss Steele with the appropriate decorum if it will make you happy. Now, I don't know what you think I'm doing here, but I was hoping to get a few tips on how to cope with this next stage of the trial... you know, the one that starts in under two hours? If you'd be so kind, of course. Wouldn't want to put you out."

I finish in a snarl, letting him know that the subject of Anastasia's fucking _name_ is at an end.

"How is your relationship developing with Matthew? And how are things with Ethan?"

I feel my teeth grind together.

"What does that have to do with the price of fish?"

"How you relate to someone who is your present and someone who is your past is inherently relevant, Christian."

"Do you speak English at all, doc? Maybe Peruvian, if you prefer?"

He shakes his head reprovingly at me.

"Christian, Matthew is a direct representation of your present. He suffered the same plight as you and is now, as an adult, seeking redress. Ethan on the other hand is your past, he is the teenage boy incarnate that you were. Suffering the same wrongs you did. I think your progress can be most accurately gauged if we look at how you feel about these two people. How you feel about yourself, both past and present."

I hate this man.

I really do.

Here I am, silently asking him to tell me that I am not depressed and that I am not incubating inappropriate feelings for my attorney and all he wants to talk about are people that I don't want to talk about.

It's fucking unprofessional is what it is.

"I don't want to talk about them," I grit out. "Ethan is working with a shrink of his own, his parents and will no doubt be the star of his own trial in months to come. Matthew is..." I shrug. "Matthew, I guess."

There it goes.

The fucking pen.

Flynn has a furious manner of writing. His tongue sticks out like some kind of chimpanzee as his hand flies across the pages of his pretentious leather bound notebook. I shudder to think about what secrets it contains, what revelations it holds in its pages about me. He better not ever lose that stupid book. I'd skin him alive.

"Curious," he murmurs, "Very curious..."

Alright, Olivander. Calm your tits.

"What's curious?" I snap. "Or is that extra?"

He closes his book sleepily and shakes his head with the sort of avuncular calmness one would expect to receive from a particularly pleasant grandfather. He looks around the room for a moment as if gathering his thoughts and my scowl deepens. He's literally gawping out the window on my dime...

The audacity of it.

"It is curious that you feel contempt for Matthew and sorrow for Ethan. Moreover, it is curious that you feel contempt for yourself as you are now and sorrow for the boy you once were. It is not the usual presentation in these circumstances, but then again, you are not a typical man..."

If I were a typically violent man I'd shove that book up the deepest crevice of his ass right now.

"I don't know what you mean," I say coldly, "And as time is of the essence right now, you might refrain from tangents that are inherently incorrect."

He regards me silently for a moment and then nods.

"Okay, we'll leave that particular topic of conversation for now and perhaps move on to the feelings of depression you have been experiencing."

I gawp.

"I've been feeling no such feelings and as a matter of fact, I'm-"

"If you tell, or attempt to tell me that you are fine, Christian, there shall be hell to pay."

The world would be better off without this insufferable man.

"I'm having a shitty time, yes," I concede through gritted teeth. "That doesn't equate to depression. You people are always so quick to label things, aren't you? You wear a blue jumper, it's because your daddy didn't love you enough and your insecure about the width of your nipples. Here, take a fucking happy pill and be on your way!"

The anger is back. It's so rarely covered by the lies of my skin.

He isn't one bit surprised.

"That rage you feel, that bitter anger... is it making your feelings for Miss Steele all the more confusing, Christian?"

I could just stab him here and now and surrender myself at the courthouse.

Convenient.

"I don't have feelings for Miss Steele. She is my attorney," I growl, "Nothing more."

He shakes his head.

"I don't think that you're telling me the truth, Christian. I think you are angry with onset depression. I think you have confused feelings for Miss Steele that make you even angrier. I think this trial has brought things to the surface that you never wanted to confront and I think that there's now no shoving them back into their box. I think that you're here because you want me to tell you that the suffocating feelings you're experiencing will go away on their own and so will your admirations of Miss Steele. I think you know I can't tell you that, because it wouldn't be true, and you want to rip my head off as a result."

I feel my body deflate like a burst balloon and my head slump to my chest.

I can't pretend anymore. I just can't. My voice is cloaked in misery as I look up at him.

"What's happening to me?"

He smiles a full and genuine smile as he considers his answer.

"You are finally beginning to heal, Christian."


	27. Chapter 27

I walk to the courtroom.

Taylor trails behind me, silently disgusted with this mode of transport. I walk in a fog of confusion. There is a script for happy pills in my back pocket that I know I won't fill. Court is due to start in twenty minutes and I'm taking my time, wandering through the thronged Seattle streets, Flynn's voice compressing my mind. Tormenting it, twisting it. I realize that I've crossed city blocks without even noticing it, arriving at the courthouse of my nightmares with seven minutes to spare.

A capacity hearing.

That's what Anastasia said this was. Solemnly, she informed me in a hushed tone that it was a fifty to fifty chance that Elena would be deemed unable to assist in her own defense and therefore, criminally insane and unable to stand trial. If and when that happens, the case will be said to be in abeyance and Elena may never face justice. She will be confined to some cushy mental facility where, with her formidable ties, she will live a long comfortable life until such time as her next manipulations would buy her freedom.

The thought... the mere premise, makes my throat close up.

That this, this fanfare shitshow would have all been for nothing. That there would be no justice for me, for Ethan or for Matthew. That the lives that whore has ravaged will go unavenged, unanswered. That she, as always, would be and remain two steps ahead of me. Anastasia left me with no delusions. This could be the end of the road. Elena's new brief is a land shark and has connections to the best psychiatrists in the state, in the country and with enough monetary incentive, their export reports could be the nail in my coffin.

I'll be a laughing stock.

The boy who cried wold.

The boy who was lucky enough to snare a lay at fifteen years old from a woman like Elena.

The boy who cried about his good luck over a decade later and was rightfully shot down.

The court steps loom large and sharp in front of me. I can feel Taylor's clean breath on my shoulder. He will never tell me to move my ass and climb the damn steps. He'd stand here all night if I were to remain rooted to the spot as I am. I feel an odd and unfamiliar rush of affection for the stoic Jason, almost reassured by his mere, quiet presence. Anastasia will be in there somewhere, armed with files and files, precedent upon precedent. This loss, should it happen, will hit her hard.

I am confused by how I feel about that.

I... care that this loss would hurt her, personally and professionally.

I am unaccustomed to these... third party feelings.

One foot in front of the other I slowly begin to ascend the steps to my own fate. It feels like one hundred years ago that this battle began and one way or the other, the course of my immediate and far future will be determined today and that is a relief. The limbo, the never ending waiting around, Elena's bullshit death stunt... it's over now. One way or another I will be leaving this court with closure or the hope of closure.

The place is fucking heaving.

Scanning the crowd, I don't see Anastasia anywhere. Or, thankfully, Elena and her motley legal crew. I know Ethan will not be here today and that's a blessing, his parents are doing their best to protect their son and he will be broken or made by how they handle this. That much I'm certain of. But Matthew should be here somewhere, milling around the bustling halls, being stronger than I am... more assured that I am.

Being a better man than I am.

Because, it's true. Matthew is a better man than I am and I think Flynn knows it. That's why he picked up on my resentment of him. I resent the kindness in his eyes, the social skills he so effortlessly exhibits and the easy manner that draws people in like flies to honey. I resent the fact that Matthew survived Elena in a manner that makes me look like a sniveling, cowering schoolboy. But that's not the topic of today. That's another day's therapy sessions. Today is about Elena, just like it's always been.

I turn at the tap on my shoulder.

Jason points through the crowd and silently steps away.

My constant shadow.

I follow his direction and see Anastasia hunched down into one of the solid oak pews that attach the walls. Her hand is flying across a yellow legal pad and her tongue is sticking out in concentration as her dark hair falls into her eyes. She brushes it away impatiently as she heaves open a file and scans it rapidly, before sending her hand flying across the page once more. My lips move in an upwards fashion, almost painfully.

Probably an allergic reaction to something I ate yesterday.

She looks up on my arrival and smiles reassuringly. My stomach constricts a little.

Probably from the allergic reaction to something I ate yesterday.

She opens her mouth to say something, but she doesn't get the chance. It was probably a gentle reprimand about my timekeeping anyway. Any time we've been in this hellhole, she implores me to arrive early which I never meaningfully do. I hate this courthouse, I hate the stone flagged walls and the churning wheels of injustice. I will spend as little time as physically possible here, no matter how beseeching her brown eyes are.

The bailiffs voice booms over the crowd.

"State v Elena Lincoln. Court is in session."

Anastasia jumps up, catching flying papers as she goes. I automatically reach down and scoop up the residue, handing it to her silently. She, equally silently, appraises my attire and nods with satisfaction. Her voice is low and urgent as she tells me for the millionth time that I shouldn't have to speak today, that this will be a matter solely for the lawyers and the medical experts. There will be no jury present. There will be no one in the court save for us and the cult of Elena, the reporter, and the judge. It' is to be what she calls in-camera proceedings. She says it will be quick, quick and definitive.

With no press.

No nothing.

As I enter behind her, I see the dragon bitch for the first time since that night and I wait for the wave of nauseated panic to hit me. But it does not. There is no panic, there is only a slowly burning flame of fury. This bitch, with her back to me in the perfectly tailored suit, has dogged my life for as long as I can remember and then had the added malevolence to try and skirt, evade and downright obliterate justice. Not just for me, but for Matthew, for Ethan and for all the boys in between.

I swallow hard and stride to my familiar spot beside Anastasia.

I do not look at her.

I will not give her the satisfaction.

I can feel her staring intently at me, though, her eagle eyes boring into the side of my neck. Anastasia surreptitiously moves, blocking her view of me. I shoot her a small, grateful look. Only a few moments race by before the door to the Judge's chambers open and a harried looking Judge Jefferson strides out. She looks the same as she always does and did and for some reason, I find that comforting. Taking her seat, she swiftly sorts her notes before clearing her throat and peering down from the bench.

"ADA Steele, you may proceed. I am most anxious to move this matter along."

Anastasia nods and rises.

"Thank you, your honor. As you are aware, this is a capacity hearing and it has been agreed by the prosecution and defense that export testimony will be in the form of agreed reports and no oral evidence will be taken. The court has received a copy of the prosecution's psychiatric evaluation of the defendant, authored by Dr Ben Young. I appreciate that the court's time has been taken up in an already outrageous manner and so I will endeavor to be brief."

Judge Jefferson nods her head approvingly.

She likes Anastasia.

I can tell.

"Dr Young has evaluated the defendant and quite simply, has found her fit to stand trial. His report, conducted after thirty three years in esteemed and unquestioned practice, states that the defendant attempted to malinger in their interview. His report states that the defendant attempted to feign symptoms of clinical insanity in what he considered to be an extremely opaque fashion. His report states that in his opinion, the defendant is highly intelligent, highly manipulative and holds no discernible moral scruples but can understand the difference between right and wrong as is the legal test in this case. Dr Young's report states that he found the defendant to be in a contrived state of confusion but with his expert questioning, he is satisfied that in his experienced opinion... the defendant is quite capable of standing trial in this matter. Quite succinctly, your honor, the defendant is as sane as you or I and ought, in the interests of justice, answer for her crimes. Thank you."

With that, Anastasia sits down in a cloud of assured confidence.

I am in awe of her.

Judge Jefferson looks to Ms Glenda Belling, new counsel for the defense, and raises a brow.

"Miss Belling? Your arguments?"

Glenda rises gracefully to her feet, completely unperturbed by Anastasia's remarks.

"Thank you, your honor," she begins smoothly in a tone that evidences her years of advocacy experience. "I, like my colleague, will attempt to be as swiftly thorough as possible. ADA Steele is quite correct in her assertion that there will be no oral evidence given here today. Therefore, the court has also been furnished with a copy of the defense's psychiatric evaluation conducted by Dr Emma Vance, an esteemed clinical psychiatrist with forty three years experience and holder of a tenured professorship at Yale university."

Judge Jefferson nods.

Impatiently.

Reading the room, Glenda doesn't falter.

"Dr Vance has stated in her report that she considers my client to be, quite simply, unfit to assist in her own defense and therefore, to stand trial. Dr Young states in her report that my client suffers form an array of psychological disorders and perhaps most notably, previously undiagnosed clinical schizophrenia. Such a severe condition that there are times when my client cannot control her own actions, both past and present. Furthermore, Dr Vance also states that my client is suffering from a very complicated form of retrograde amnesia and therefore cannot remember large chunks of time as a whole. Some chunks being so large so as to remove years from my clients recollections. Dr Young is of the opinion that my client, as a result of a series of her own unresolved and tragic traumas, criminally insane within the meaning of the relevant statue. Dr Young, one of the most revered medical professionals in her field, has determined that Ms Elena Lincoln does not have the mental capacity to stand trial in this matter and I put it to the court that this case must be immediately put into abeyance and my client transferred to a private facility to receive urgent treatment."

She nods smartly, murmurs a thank you, and sits down.

My heart sinks.

And sinks and sinks and sinks.

She's going to get away with it... she's going to fucking get away with it.

I don't have time to think on it, Judge Jefferson's voice rings loud.

"Thank you Miss Belling and thank you, ADA Steele for your brief submissions. I have read both reports to which you both refer in great detail and have considered the matter with great care. I am aware of both experts you have commissioned and I am familiar with their caliber. The highly conflicting nature of the reports furnished to the court in this regard is... surprising. Be that as it may, I have made my decision. I am unwilling for any more of this courts time to be taken up with non substantive matters. It is the decision of this court, having given due regard to the evidence put before it, that the defendant... Miss Elena Lincoln is deemed..."

Anastasia, subtly, very subtly... whispers in my ear.

We wait with bated breath for my world to implode and my worst fears to come to light.

"Comprehensively fit to stand trial."

...


End file.
